OEWJTT  A  3N£?U.INQ 

fiOOKSCLLERS 

Wipi  TELBOMWI  *f* 

S2Q   pouftTSEHTH   ST. 

OAKLAND,  GAL. 


PRISONER   OF   WAR 


SOLDIERS'  TALES  OF  THE 
GREAT  WAR 

Each  Volume  cr.  8vo,  Cloth. 
Now  ready. 

I.  WITH  MY  REGIMENT.     By  "  PLA- 
TOON COMMANDER." 

II.  DIXMUDE.  The  Epic  of  the  French 
Marines.  Oct.  -  Nov.  1914.  By 
CHARLES  LE  GOFFIC.  Illustrated 

III.  IN     THE     FIELD     (1914-15).       The 

Impressions  of  an  Officer  of  Light 
Cavalry. 

IV.  PRISONER    OF    WAR.      By  ANDRE 

WARNOD.  Illustrated 

V.  UNCENSORED  LETTERS.  Notes 
of  a  French  Army  Doctor. 

Illustrated 
Other  volumes  to  follow. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY 
LONDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 

BY 

ANDRfi    WARNOD 

With  60  Sketches  by  the  Author 
TRANSLATED    BY   M.   JOURDAIN 


PHILADELPHIA:  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

LONDON  :  WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 

MCMXVI 


Printed  in  Great  Britain. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


PACK 


FROM  THE  BATTLEFIELD  TO  THE  CAMP   .        .  I 

THE  CAMP 23 

THE  GERMANS  AND  Us    .        .        .  51 

FIGHTING  DEPRESSION 69 

ANSWERS  TO  QUESTIONS  .....  97 

THE  CANTEEN 103 

LETTERS     ...  ...  108 

IN  CASE  OF  FIRE 115 

MASS  .        .        .       ' 117 

WORK .125 

THE  WATER  SUPPLY r4i 

NEWS  .  ,  /  147 

THE  THEATRE  ,         .        ,        .        .         .        .155 
HOW  WE  GOT  BACK  .        .        .        .        .        .     163 


FROM   THE   BATTLEFIELD   TO 
THE   CAMP 


PARIS  again,  with  its  streets,  where  one  can 
walk  where  one  likes,  and  its  restaurants,  where 
one  can  eat  what  one  pleases,  its  real  houses, 
real  laughter,  and  real  bread  !  There  it  is,  after 
seven  days  and  seven  nights  in  the  train.  I 
look  at  my  ragged  and  buttonless  overcoat, 
with  its  strap  pinned  on  by  a  safety  pin,  and 
the  dirty  strip  of  stuff  which  was  once  my  red 
cross  brassard,  and  I  fancy  it  is  all  a  dream. 

People  ask  me  to  "  tell  them  all  about  it." 
That  isn't  easy  ;  just  at  present  I  am  afraid  of 
losing  grip  of  my  will  and  memory.  I  think  I 
have  lost  the  taste  for  writing,  just  as  I  have 
lost  the  taste  for  good  tobacco  and  good  wine. 
These  last  two  days  I  have  been  constantly 
asked  what  I  thought  of  such  and  such  a  wine 


B2 


4  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

or  cigar.  I  tell  you  I  don't  "  think  "  anything 
at  all.  I  have  lost  the  habit  of  such  flavours, 
and  it  is  only  by  degrees  that  I  shall  begin  to 
understand  them  again.  Give  me  time.  .  .  . 
In  the  same  way  I  must  have  time  to  think 
before  telling  my  story.  For  the  moment  I 
can  only  see  the  past — all  that  happened  nine 
months  ago — through  a  mist  of  confused 
impressions,  with  here  and  there  some  quite 
unimportant  event  in  clear  relief  against  it.  I 
can  see  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  mobilisation, 
our  start  from  the  barracks,  our  marching 
through  Nancy,  and  people  crowding  round  us 
with  fruit  and  wine  and  flowers  ;  there  was  a 
dahlia  or  a  rose  stuck  in  every  man's  gun-barrel, 
Then  the  strains  of  the  Marseillaise  and  the 
Chant  du  Depart.  We  were  covered  with  sweat 
and  dust,  and  women  embraced  us.  Then,  and 
for  the  first  time,  I  had  a  feeling  that  we  were 
on  our  way  to  things  heroic  and  difficult — 
things  we  bad  to  do,  however  difficult.  And 
then  on  we  went  again,  and  here  my  recollec- 
tions become  confused — a  medley  of  crossing 


FROM    BATTLEFIELD  TO  CAMP     5 

the  frontier  and  tearing  down  the  frontier  posts ; 
the  first  sound  of  the  guns  ;  the  first  fusillade  ; 
the  men  who  fell,  who  had  to  be  left  behind  our 
lines  ;  the  Boches  in  flight ;  the  intoxication  of 
advancing ;  and  then  the  sudden  halt  at 
Morhange.  Why  did  we  stop  there  ?  I 
have  not  the  least  idea  ;  a  private  soldier 
never  has.  I  remember  marches  and  counter- 
marches at  night,  heartrending  marches  on 
roads  crowded  with  troops,  among  dragoons, 
gunners  with  their  guns,  carts  of  all  sorts,  and 
ambulances  and  wounded  men  who  were  being 
attended  to.  Then  we  fell  back,  and  at  the 
Grand  Couronne  de  Nancy  we  were  told  to 
halt.  There  was  a  rumour  that  the  enemy  was 
quite  near,  and  that  he  must  not  be  allowed  to 
advance  any  farther.  There  was  a  battle,  and 
I  can  see  Chasseurs  and  colonial  troops  dashing 
on  before  us,  through  the  din  of  battle,  with 
their  bayonets,  and  that  was  the  last  we  saw  of 
them.  We  were  told  that  the  Bavarian  troops 
in  front  of  them  were  giving  ground.  The 
noise  of  the  guns  was  terrible,  and  we  dug 


6  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

trenches  with  bullets  whistling  around  us. 
Days  went  by  ;  we  were  still  waiting,  and  every 
evening  after  the  day's  bombardment  we  saw 
a  village  in  flames.  They  all  flared  up,  one 
after  the  other.  Would  our  village  we  were 
holding  be  spared  ? 

No,  its  turn  soon  came  ;  and  a  shell  fell  on 
the  hospital,  and  several  of  our  wounded  were 
killed,  and  then  the  church !  .  .  .  I  can  see  the 
ornaments  of  the  altar  scattered  in  the  road, 
and  the  windows  as  full  of  holes  as  a  spider's 
web,  and  above  it  all  the  torn  and  riddled 
carcase  of  the  belfry.  All  the  time  the  un- 
ceasing thunder  of  the  guns  made  one  dizzy. 
We  were  told  we  were  near  a  place  the  Germans 
wanted  to  take,  which  we  were  to  defend  at  all 
costs.  The  Chasseurs  had  been  fighting  like 
mad  for  two  days,  and  we  were  sent  at  night 
to  relieve  them.  We  crawled  to  their  position, 
and  crept  into  their  trenches,  which  were 
covered  with  branches.  Later  we  were  told 
that  the  Kaiser  was  there  watching  us  and 
awaiting  a  triumphal  entry  into  Nancy. 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO   CAMP     7 

We  were  fairly  comfortable  in  the  trench, 
which  was  covered  with  branches  and  leaves. 
Bullets  passed  overhead,  almost  without  touch- 
ing us.  From  time  to  time  there  was  an 
attempt  at  an  attack,  and  the  grey  helmets 
came  on.  Then  the  word  of  command, 
"  Fire  ! "  and  we  saw  men  dropping  and  hurry- 
ing back.  We  were  full  of  confidence,  almost 
cheerful. 

And  then  I  see  the  comrade  who  suddenly 
ran  towards  us  through  the  ever-increasing 
din  of  the  cannonade.  There  was  blood  on  his 
face,  and  he  told  our  captain  that  a  neighbouring 
trench  had  given  way  under  shell-fire,  and  that 
we  were  outflanked  and  would  be  rolled  up. 
Then  we  saw  them  advancing  on  our  right, 
with  their  bayonets,  and  pouring  a  steady  rain 
of  bullets  upon  the  trench  which  we  had  to 
abandon.  It  was  an  awful  moment.  To  get 
away  from  this  infernal  spot  and  take  up 
another  position  we  had  to  cross  a  strip  of 
ground  rather  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
across.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  face 


\ 

8  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  steady  concentrated  fire,  which  took  a 
heavy  toll  of  us.  A  man  dropped  at  every 
step  of  the  way,  and  when  we  formed  up  to 
retake  the  trench  we  had  lost,  we  looked  round, 
and  half  the  company  was  gone.  Then  we 
fell  back  again  ;  I  still  do  not  know  why.  I 
felt  that  the  deafening  machine-guns  were 
tearing  gaps  in  our  ranks  ;  we  were  very 
hungry  and  thirsty  and  quite  exhausted,  but 
our  moral  was  not  bad.  And  I  suddenly 
remembered  our  feelings  when  a  small  notice 
was  put  up  on  the  door  of  the  farm  where  we 
were  billeted  one  evening  long  ago — an  order 
from  general  headquarters  to  hold  firm  "  at 
any  cost  "  until  a  certain  day  in  September 
that  was  mentioned.  Only  one  week  more  ! 
We  counted  the  days  and  hours.  At  last  the 
time  came,  and  the  German  menace,  instead  of 
pressing  on,  was  rolled  back.  The  Germans 
were  not  going  to  take  Nancy ;  they  were  in 
retreat.  What  could  have  happened  ? 

Before  we  followed  them  up   the  roll  was 
called.     My   poor   company  !     Of  our   squad 


FROM   BATTLEFIELD  TO   CAMP     9 

only  three  were  left.  The  lieutenants  and 
corporals  were  all  gone  ;  we  had  but  one 
sergeant ;  the  liaison  men,  the  hospital  order- 
lies, and  the  stretcher-bearers  were  all  killed. 
We  had  to  have  others  at  once,  and  I  was 

chosen. 

*  *  *  *  # 

We  were  occupying  villages  which  the  Boches 
had  abandoned  ;  and  this  inaction  in  this 
melancholy  and  deserted  countryside,  in  these 
ruined  villages,  among  these  poor  little  pillaged 
houses  and  among  these  weeping  peasants  was 
worse  than  fighting.  There  was  nothing  much 
to  do  while  we  waited  for  the  fighting  to  begin 
again,  and  that  was  bad  for  us.  We  had  time 
to  become  down-hearted  and  think  too  much 
of  home. 

Then  we  got  good  news.  We  were  to  leave  ! 
It  seemed  we  were  not  wanted  in  the  east,  but 
should  be  useful  in  the  north.  So  we  started 
for  the  north.  We  were  in  good  spirits  again, 
without  knowing  why.  The  journey  was 
pleasant,  and  at  every  station  people  crowded 


io  PRISONER   OF  WAR 

round  the  trains  into  which  we  were  packed, 
and  cheered  us  and  brought  us  drinks,  food, 
flowers  and  tobacco.  It  was  just  the  same 
when  we  reached  our  journey's  end  :  we  were 
taken  possession  of ;  everybody  was  ready  and 
willing  to  give  us  food  and  lodging.  The 
Boches,  apparently,  were  quite  close.  Mean- 
while I  was  delighted  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  this  land  of  plenty  and  land  of 
Cockaigne,  where  one  felt  so  proud  of  being  a 
soldier,  and  so  content  to  be  alive. 

Our  joy  was  short-lived.  Two  hours  after 
we  detrained  we  were  told  that  the  Germans 
were  attacking  D . 

So  we  left  the  town  to  fight  again.  Then 
two  days  were  spent  in  the  hideous  tumult  and 
fever  of  battle,  in  picking  up  our  wounded 
under  fire.  The  second  day  the  commanding 
officer  came  to  the  dressing  station  where  I  was 
and  said  that  his  battalion  was  evacuating  the 
village,  and  that  we  must  remove  our  wounded 
at  once  as  best  we  could.  A  peasant  woman 
lent  us  her  horse,  another  a  four-wheeled  cart  ; 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO   CAMP    n 

the  horse  was  put  in  and  the  cart  loaded.  It 
soon  was  full,  and  we  set  out,  jolting  along  a 
road  littered  with  dead  bodies  and  wounded, 
with  dead  horses  and  limbers  without  drivers, 
and  bordered  with  burning  ricks.  Shells  were 
bursting  round  us ;  and  I  remember,  like  a 
picture,  the  commanding  officer  coming  back, 
explaining  something,  and  making  signs.  Our 
retreat  was  cut  off,  and  the  regiment  quitted 
the  road,  and  marched  across  country  in  good 
order  to  some  destination  unknown  to  me. 
But  where  should  I  take  the  cart,  which  had 
to  keep  to  the  road  ?  I  decided  to  drive 
straight  on. 

There  was  a  village  five  hundred  yards  or 
so  further  on.  Perhaps  we  should  be  safe 
there.  So  I  lashed  the  horse  I  was  leading, 
running  as  fast  as  I  could  to  keep  up  with  its 
gallop,  under  the  fire  of  a  German  machine- 
gun  which  swept  the  road.  The  bullets 
whistled  by,  knocking  up  dust  and  pebbles 
around  us,  and  rattling  off  the  hood  of  the 
cart.  We  went  on  running  as  fast  as  we  could. 


12  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

Twice  the  horse  was  hit,  and  stumbled  ;  the 
third  time  he  dropped.  The  machine-gun 
never  ceased  firing. 

There  was  only  one  orderly  with  me,  and 
together  we  lifted  the  wounded  men  from  the 
cart  and  put  them  under  cover  behind  a  rick. 
Then  we  waited.  The  day  seemed  unending. 
The  regiment  had  disappeared,  and  we  were 
left  alone  by  this  deserted  road,  where  the 
bullets  were  still  whistling.  One  soldier,  who 
was  only  slightly  wounded,  tried  to  join  his 
comrades,  and  fell  as  he  started  to  run.  The 
machine-gun  never  gave  us  a  moment's  peace. 
Then  evening  fell,  a  fine  late  summer  evening, 
bringing  us  a  little  coolness  and  darkness. 
Perhaps  the  firing  would  cease,  and  we  could 
overtake  our  men.  We  would  find  a  horse  or 
push  the  cart,  and  get  out  of  our  difficulty 
somehow.  But  what  was  that  ? 

Two  hundred  yards  from  us,  in  the  deepening 
twilight,  appeared  a  row  of  dark  silhouettes, 
which  vanished  again.  We  looked  at  them  in 
utter  astonishment.  The  machine-gun  had 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO   CAMP    13 

ceased  firing.  Then  the  black  silhouettes 
appeared  and  vanished  again.  There  was  no 
possible  doubt :  it  was  the  Boches.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  We  were  only  a  party  of  wounded, 
guarded  by  two  unarmed  men,  and  a  dead 
horse.  We  waited  for  the  final  volley  to  make 
an  end  of  us.  Then  a  Chasseur,  with  his 
knees  broken,  had  an  inspiration.  With  a 
finger  dipped  in  blood  from  his  wounds,  he 
traced  a  red  cross  on  a  handkerchief,  tied  it  to 
the  end  of  a  bayonet,  and  waved  it.  We 
thought  we  were  safe  under  this  emblem,  but 
we  got  a  volley  which  went  clean  through  our 
party,  hitting  no  one.  A  sergeant  pulled  a 
rosary  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  pray  : 
"  Let  us  commend  our  souls  to  God."  Then  the 
dark  figures  drew  closer,  and  we  could  see  the 
shape  of  their  helmets.  They  were  a  hundred 
yards,  then  fifty,  then  twenty  yards  from  us, 
and  we  could  hear  them  speaking  German.  At 
ten  yards  distance  three  shadows  came  for- 
ward from  the  group,  covering  us  with  their 
rifles.  One  of  them  called  out :  "  Auf  !  "  I  got 


14  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

up,  and  clapping  my  armlet,  answered :  "  Rothe 
Kreutz!  "  They  surrounded  us  and  ordered  us 
to  abandon  our  equipment  and  our  knapsacks 
and  march.  So,  slowly  and  painfully,  the 
slightly  wounded  carrying  or  supporting  the 
others,  we  entered  the  enemy's  lines.  We  were 

prisoners  of  war. 

***** 

I  can  see  the  farm  full  of  German  soldiers 
busy  emptying  the  cellar  and  drinking  in 
silence.  The  barn  was  full  of  wounded  men. 
We  joined  them,  and  a  captain  who  spoke 
French  ordered  our  money  to  be  returned  to  us. 
All  night  long  my  comrade  and  I  were  busy 
attending  to  the  wounded,  both  French  and 
German,  who  were  lying  in  a  confused  heap  on 
the  straw.  We  were  allowed  to  keep  our 
instruments,  and  we  used  the  men's  first  aid 
dressings. 

At  daybreak  carriages  and  a  section  of 
German  ambulance  men  arrived.  Our 
wounded  were  removed,  and  I  and  the  orderly, 
the  only  two  unwounded,  were  marched  off 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO  CAMP    15 

between  a  corporal  and  soldiers  with  fixed 
bayonets.  We  did  not  know  where  we  were 
being  taken. 

It  was  a  sinister  march  as  we  four  went 
silently  on  past  houses  either  empty,  or  ruined, 
or  mere  smoking  shells,  where  here  and  there  a 
shrinking  figure  of  a  woman  or  child  showed 
itself.  And  then  the  dead  lying  on  the  road,  our 
dead !  'Their  dead  had  already  been  removed. 
On  all  the  doors  were  notices  of  billets  written 
in  chalk.  Their  soldiers  were  taking  their  ease, 
and  going  and  coming  in  silence,  or  lounging  in 
their  grey  uniforms  in  armchairs  looted  from 
the  houses  near  by.  We  passed  inns  and 
grocers'  shops  which  had  been  pillaged,  and  a 
cow  lay  dead  in  a  field. 

Our  first  halt  was  in  the  guard-room  where 
we  were  taken.  It  was  in  a  lawyer's  office. 
The  men  greeted  us  without  any  apparent 
antipathy  and  gave  us  some  of  their  food,  but 
kept  the  wine  they  had  stolen  from  the  owner 
for  themselves.  The  man  in  charge  was  fairly 
well  educated.  He  talked  to  me  about  Munich, 


16  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

and  showed  me  photographs  of  pictures  a 
friend  of  his  had  painted  and  also  some  vile 
picture  postcards  on  which  we  Frenchmen 
were  coarsely  caricatured.  He  had  a  kindly 
smile,  and  really  did  not  seem  to  see  that  he 
was  offensive.  Then  came  our  examination. 
A  staff  officer  entered  and  questioned  us  in 
perfect  French  about  the  position  of  our 
artillery,  our  fortifications,  and  the  English 
army.  We  replied  that  we  were  in  the  medical 
service  and  knew  nothing  about  these  things. 
The  officer  did  not  press  us,  and  merely  said  : 
"  This  war  will  be  a  long  one.  for  after  taking 
Paris  we  shall  have  to  crush  the  Russians.  But 
it  will  all  be  over  in  July." 

The  staff  was  quartered  in  the  lawyer's 
house.  We  spent  the  night  there,  and  next 
morning  we  were  allowed  to  go  into  the  garden. 
This  was  the  sight  which  met  our  eyes  :  In 
front  of  the  house  a  military  van  was  drawn  up, 
escorted  by  a  party  of  unarmed  soldiers  in 
service  caps.  They  went  into  the  house,  and 
others  remained  by  the  door,  with  hammers,  a 


FROM   BATTLEFIELD  TO  CAMP    17 

bag  of  nails,  and  a  saw.  They  very  quickly 
knocked  together  large  packing-cases,  and 
the  looting  was  silently  and  methodically 
carried  on  around  these  cases  ;  a  piano  went 
into  them,  the  chairs,  and  a  sofa.  Every  man 
was  hard  at  work,  sawing,  hammering,  fetching 
and  carrying.  Then  the  pictures  were  brought 
out,  all  well  wrapped  up,  and  fragile  objects 
carefully  packed  in  straw.  An  officer,  smoking 
a  cigar,  gave  directions.  It  was  all  very  well 
done  ;  no  professional  furniture  removers  could 
have  done  better.  When  the  van  was  full  it 
was  driven  to  the  station. 

As  for  us,  we  continued  our  journey  on  foot. 
We  were  in  the  charge  of  the  police,  who  sent 
us  with  a  convoy,  where  we  found  ourselves 
mixed  up  with  prisoners  of  all  arms,  civilians, 
and  Moroccan  soldiers  who  were  obviously 
dazed  and  dumbfounded  at  what  had  befallen 
them.  We  marched  all  that  day,  guarded  by 
the  mounted  police.  The  police  turned  us  over 
to  old  men  of  the  Bavarian  Landsturm,  who 
wore  a  leather  cap  with  a  white  cross  over  the 

p,w.  6 


1 8  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

peak,  and  who  were  stiff  in  their  manner  to  us, 
but  not  unkindly.  They  were  not  fighting 
men,  and  there  was  nothing  of  the  conquering 
hero  about  them.  Night  fell,  the  third  night 
since  our  friend  the  Chasseur 
waved  his  blood-stained  hand- 
kerchief at  the  end  of  his 
bayonet.  Our  poor  little 
party  was  packed  into  a  small 
coachhouse.  The  captain,  a 
fat  and  portly  little  person, 
before  shutting  us  in  said  : 
"  Any  one  who  tries  to  get 
out  will  be  shot.  Those  are 
my  orders."  A  Bavarian 
gave  us  a  little  soup,  and  we 
stretched  ourselves  on  the 
floor  to  wait  for  the  morrow. 

In  our  march  next  day  we  met  on  our  way 
ammunition  waggons,  enormous  lorries,  ambu- 
lances, guns,  and  cavalry  escorts.  The  carriages 
were  grey,  the  guns  grey,  the  uniforms  grey, 
the  only  note  of  colour  the  dolls  dressed  in  the 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO  CAMP    19 

uniforms  of  French  soldiers,  looted  from  some 
shop,  on  the  front  of  the  officers'  motors.  We 
met  a  company  of  infantry.  One  tall  fellow 
left  the  ranks,  and  with  an  oath  struck  one  of 
our  wounded,  who  had  his  arm  in  a  sling,  with 
the  butt-end  of  his  rifle.  The  poor  fellow 
stumbled,  and  an  officer,  without  a  word, 
pushed  the  brute  away.  We  heard  shouts 
from  an  officer's  motor  as  it  passed ;  they  cursed 
us,  and  as  it  vanished  in  the  dust  one  of  them 
shouted :  "  You  dirty  Boches  ! "  Well  he 
knew  that  there  was  no  worse  insult. 

*  #  #  #  * 

We  came  to  a  town.  Our  escort  conversed 
and  looked  up  :  they  had  just  seen  an  aero- 
plane. It  was  a  French  machine,  and  coming 
rapidly  towards  us.  The  German  soldiers 
were  much  excited,  and  we  heard  the  click  of 
their  rifles  as  they  pulled  the  triggers.  Then 
we  heard  a  whistle,  and  a  deafening  volley 
rang  in  our  ears.  Then  we  had  another  painful 
experience.  Bombs  had  been  dropped  from  the 
aeroplane,  and  we  were  at  once  lined  up  against 


20  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  wall  of  a  house.  The  aeroplane  had 
disappeared.  The  officers  argued  for  a  moment ; 
then  the  captain  got  on  his  horse  again,  and 
gave  the  order  to  march.  We  entered  the 
town — Cambrai. 

The  streets  looked  dead  ;  there  were  notices 
on  all  the  walls,  in  French,  from  the  Kom- 
mandantur.  People  saw  us  go  by  without  a 
word.  One  woman,  who  stepped  forward  to 
give  us  some  bread,  was  roughly  pushed  away 
by  a  soldier.  Then  we  halted  in  a  square, 
near  the  town  hall.  The  bombs  from  the 
aeroplane  had  fallen  there,  a  shop  had  been 
gutted,  and  dead  horses  were  lying  in  a 
pool  of  blood.  We  were  tired  out,  and 
stretched  ourselves  on  the  ground.  The  towns- 
folk, who  were  allowed  to  come  near  us, 
brought  us  provisions,  chiefly  bread  and  fruit. 
Our  escort  seized  them  and  ate  their  fill,  then 
beat  off  the  crowd  with  the  butt-ends  of  their 
rifles,  and  off  we  marched  again.  I  saw  some 
women  crying. 

We  had  not  much  farther  to  go.     We  were 


FROM  BATTLEFIELD  TO  CAMP    21 

taken  to  the  goods  station,  where  the  Bavarians 
handed  us  over  to  some  big  Saxon  soldiers — 
quite  young  fellows — who  handled  our  poor 
flock  somewhat  brutally.  There  were  all  sorts 
and  conditions  in  this 
flock  which  we  found 
there,  filling  the 
station,  soldiers  and 
civilians  and  some 
old  men  among  the 
civilians.  A  little  lad 
of  thirteen,  weeping 
bitterly,  was  dragged 
along  by  a  big  fellow 
in  a  helmet.  The 
child  was  found  play- 
ing in  the  street  with  a  case  of  cartridges,  and 
the  Boche  explained  :  "  Franc-tireur !  franc- 
tireur  !  Kapout"*  making  a  sign  to  the  thirteen- 
year-old  prisoner  that  he  would  have  his  throat 
cut.  That  is  their  mania  ;  they  see  francs- 
tireurs  everywhere. 

*  Kapout,  slang  in  German  for  «*  Done  for,"  "  dead." 


22  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

Night  fell.  We  were  famished,  for  we  had 
only  been  given  a  handful  of  biscuits  since  the 
morning,  and  we  were  put  into  cattle  trucks. 
There  were  forty-six  of  us  in  my  truck,  among 
them  the  poor  little  lad  who  was  a  franc-tireur 
and  ten  wounded  men.  The  train  moved  off 
into  the  night  towards  Germany.  Where 
were  we  going  to  ? 

The  little  boy  cried  all  the  time. 


THE   CAMP 


AFTER  running  a  long  time  through  that 
interminable  night  we  stopped.  There  was  no 
roll-call.  There  was  something  terrifying  in 
all  this  quiet  and  silence  and  darkness  ;  it  was 
like  a  nightmare  after  a  battle.  When  day- 
light dawned  a  ray  of  sunlight  filtered  through 
a  crack  of  the  door.  We  became  more  and 
more  hungry,  and  a  gunner  called  for  his 
coffee.  The  train  ran  for  a  long  time  before 
the  next  stop.  Then  the  sliding-doors  creaked, 
and  we  could  see,  and  the  gunner  again  asked 
for  his  coffee.  But  nothing  happened  ;  only  a 
German  soldier  thrust  his  head  in,  grinned, 
signed  to  the  little  lad  that  his  throat  would  be 
cut,  and  the  door  was  shut  to  again.  The 
train  started.  There  was  a  great  clash  of  the 
carriages,  and  the  whole  train  vibrated.  We 


26  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

were  at  Brussels.  The  skylight  of  the  truck 
was  opened  to  give  us  some  air,  and  we  were 
thrown  some  bits  of  bread.  We  could  see 
people  waving  adieu  to  us  from  their  windows. 
As  we  passed  under  a  bridge  a  man  in  the  street 
took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it. 

The  train  ran  on  and  on,  and  the  long  hours 
went  by.  We  waited  a  very  long  time  at  sidings 
and  saw  troop-trains  go  by  full  of  men  singing 
patriotic  songs  and  abusing  us.  A  second 
night  passed,  .  .  .  and  another  day.  We  had 
the  horrible  feeling  that  we  should  never  leave 
this  truck,  and  that  we  were  forgotten.  The 
third  night  we  could  not  sleep,  we  were  so 
famished.  In  the  light  which  filtered  through 
the  skylight  as  into  a  cellar,  I  could  see  the 
men's  faces,  terrible  in  their  pallor  and  dreari- 
ness, all  drawn  and  haggard.  We  no  longer 
spoke,  but  the  little  lad  never  ceased  crying. 
We  ran  past  ruined  Liege  and  the  frontier,  then 
Aix-la-Chapelle.  We  were  running  through 
their  country  now,  and  there  were  shouts  every 
time  our  train  passed  a  station.  At  Cologne 


THE  CAMP  27 

we  were  greeted  by  a  rain  of  pebbles  on  the 
trucks,  and  I  remembered  I  came  here  a  few 
months  ago  with  some  fellow-artists  and  art 
critics.  We  came  to  see  and  admire  their 
exhibition.  We  had  a  magnificent  reception 
iben^  and  yet  they  threw  stones  and  spat  on 
us  as  we  went  by. 

We  suffered  increasingly  from  hunger,  and 
it  was  only  after  another  interminable  night 
of  torture  that  we  were  allowed  to  leave  the 
truck — I  don't  know  where — and  have  soup  at 
some  hall  built  for  the  accommodation  of  troops. 
When  we  got  into  the  truck  again  we  had  had 
almost  enough  to  eat,  and  had  taken  a  new  lease 
of  courage.  We  laughed  at  a  peasant  woman 
in  a  field  with  a  black  bonnet  and  red  petticoat, 
and  became  quite  cheerful. 

Yet   another   night   in   the   train !     I  have 
forgotten  how  many  that  makes.      Then  the 
train  stopped,  and  the  doors  of  the  trucks  were 
thrown  open.     We  had  reached  Merseburg. 
***** 

It  was  raining.     We  were  ordered  on  to  the 


28  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

platform  and  drawn  up  in  fours.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  barriers  a  crowd  with  umbrellas  was 
waiting  for  us.  "  Are  we  going  to  catch  it  ?  " 
whispered  my  neighbour.  But  they  did  not 
stir  and  let  us  pass  without  a  word.  Oh,  that 
march  in  the  rain,  that  soaked  the  dust  and 
dirt  we  were  coated  with  !  They  looked  at  us 
with  much  curiosity.  Our  uniforms  of  all 
colours,  the  flat  caps  of  the  Alpine  troops,  the 
turbans,  the  Tunisian  caps  of  our  sharp- 
shooters, had  a  strange  and  almost  gay 
appearance  in  this  gloomy  town  under  the 
pouring  rain.  .  .  . 

Nine  months  ago  the  camp  was  not  built,  and 
when  we  passed  that  morning  before  the  guard- 
house at  the  entrance  in  order  to  reach  the 
shelters  which  were  soon  to  be  replaced  by  the 
present  huts,  all  we  saw  under  the  downpour  of 
fine  rain  was  an  immense  plain  of  mud,  enclosed 
by  strands  of  barbed  wire.  How  many  weeks 
were  we  going  to  be  there  ?  we  thought.  Say 
rather,  how  many  months  ? 

Soon,  alas  !  the  desert  was  peopled.     It  was 


THE  CAMP  29 

a  town  the  other  day  when  I  left  it,  but  what 
a  town  !  Wooden  huts  covered  with  tarred 
paper,  all  exactly  alike  and  all  facing  the  same 
way,  were  ranged  in  lines  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see,  and  nothing  to  break  the  grey  and  dead 
monotony  of  these  great  rusty-black  huts,  set 
out  with  military  precision  on  a  plain  of  dust 
or  mud,  not  a  single  blade  of  grass,  not 
even  the  smallest  shrub,  but  an  infinity  of 
lines  of  barbed  wire,  the  only  vegetation  of 
this  desolate  place,  climbing  from  stake  to 
stake  round  the  camp  like  strange  and  cruel 
and  cunning  creepers,  forming  a  fence  six  feet 
high.  Then  they  descend  to  form  a  second 
fence  at  a  little  distance  from  the  first,  insinu- 
ate themselves  between  the  huts,  are  ranged 
six  deep  in  an  enclosure  which  swallows  them 
up,  then  continue  on  their  way,  and  overtake 
the  first  fences,  then  wind  up  and  down  and 
lose  themselves  in  a  maze — unwearied  creepers 
strengthening  and  consolidating  the  cage  on 
every  side.  We  soon  got  to  feel  that  we  were  cut 
off  from  everythinghere,  and  that  the  rest  of  the 


30  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

prisoner's  life  would  be  spent  on  the  wrong  side 
of  these  iron  strands.     There  are  the  country, 
and  leafing  trees,  and  rising  corn  still,  and  people 
who  laugh  and  suffer,  and  young  men  who  arm 
to  defend  their  country,  but  all  this  is  on  the 
other  side  of  these  iron  strands.     Like  captive 
and   domestic   animals,   prisoners   see   things 
from  a  great  distance.     No  one  comes  near 
them  but  the  men  who  are  there,  the  sentries 
armed  with  their  rifles,  with  their  guns  always 
pointed,  their  watchdogs,  and  their  machine- 
guns   all    ready   and   waiting,     and    a   little 
farther  off  a  crowd — young  girls  in  gay  cos- 
tumes, old  men  who  drink  beer,  and  spectacled 
boys  who  grin   as   they  peep   at  us   through 
opera-glasses. 

It  takes  courage  to  accustom  oneself  to  live 
in  these  little  pens,  like  those  of  animals  in  a 
zoological  garden.  Each  division  contains  a 
group  of  about  fifteen  hundred  men,  packed 
into  six  huts.  There  are  eight  such  groups  in 
the  camp.  It  is  a  model  camp,  laid  out  most 
methodically,  a  genuine  specimen  of  jerry- 


THE   CAMP  33 

built  Boche  work.  Nothing  is  missing  :  there 
are  guardhouses,  kitchens,  a  bathhouse  with 
douches,  wash-houses,  a  little  hospital,  a 
disinfecting  establishment,  gas,  and  electric 
light.  It  is  admirable,  it  is  quite  complete, 
only  the  essential  is  lacking.  Prisoners  are 
dying  of  hunger,  three  men  sleep  on  two 
verminous  mattresses,  and  there  are  prisoners 
who  have  not  been  warm  for  a  moment  all  the 
winter.  After  some  months  of  wear  and  tear 
the  woodwork  is  all  warped,  and  the  roofs  let 
in  the  rain.  But  it  is  a  model  camp,  made 
in  Germany,  and  in  theory  there  is  nothing 
lacking. 

The  camp  is  almost  a  town,  a  town  of  twenty 
thousand  souls,  with  a  male  population  made 
up  of  many  and  various  elements  :  civilians 
from  the  north,  mostly  miners,  men  not  liable 
for  military  service  or  invalids  (for  a  long  time 
we  had  boys  of  twelve  and  old  men  of  eighty), 
every  variety  of  soldier,  Territorials  from 
conquered  towns,  wounded  Zouaves,  number- 
less hungry  and  ragged  Russians,  bare-legged 


34 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


Scots,  native  African  soldiers  wrapped  in  their 
burnouses  ;  and,  to  add  to  the  crowd's  cosmo- 
politan appearance,  all  the  uniforms  are  inter- 
changed. There  are  Zouaves 
with  Russian  boots,  Belgians 
with  English  cloaks,  sharp- 
shooters wearing  gunners' 
jackets ;  and  a  collection 
of  regulation  buttons  of  all 
the  armies  may  be  found  on 
all  the  tunics. 

It  was  the  Germans' 
scheme  to  mix  all  the  allied 
nations  together.  They 
imagined  that  there  would 
be  quarrelling  and  fighting 
amongst  us  as  a  result 
of  our  close  proximity, 
and  they  were  wrong.  All  these  men  who 
suffer  the  same  hardships  at  the  hands  of  the 
same  foe  have  learnt  to  know  and  love  one 
another,  perhaps  better  than  comrades  in 
arms.  The  prisoners  are  an  international 


THE  CAMP 


35 


society  from  which  Germany  is  excluded,  and 
some  evenings  in  the  hut  there  is  felt  the  beat 
and  throb  of  a  single  heart,  the  heart  of  the 
immense     army     of     the 
Allies. 

But  every  man  retains 
his  own  individuality ;  the 
races  and  countries  keep 
their  own  characteristics. 

And  it  is  this  variety  of 
picturesque  effect  that  is 
the  first  impression  on 
entering  a  hut.  The 
Russians  are  busy  carpen- 
tering, their  grey-green 
uniforms  high  lights  of  pale 
colour  against  the  mat- 
tresses of  buff-coloured 
canvas  and  the  deal  planks.  The  French 
soldiers  return  to  their  barrack  life,  and  their 
quarter  has  something  of  the  appearance 
of  a  regimental  mess.  Order  and  neatness 
are  some  disguise  to  the  dirt.  Clothes  are 


36  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

folded  neatly  up,  like  kit,  knapsacks  and 
water-bottles  hang  on  their  nails.  But  the 
poor  civilians  live  in  a  muddle — the  helpless 
muddle  of  men  who  have  never  been  soldiers, 
and  are  forced  to  live  together.  They  have 
been  brought  here  unexpectedly,  some  seized 
in  their  beds,  others  as  they  went  out  to  buy 
tobacco ;  and  they  were  made  to  march  with 
oaths  and  blows  just  as  they  were,  some  in 


THE  CAMP 


37 


slippers,  some  bare-headed,  most  of  them 
without  any  money,  rich  and  poor,  bandy- 
legged and  hump-backed,  old  men  and  children, 
herded  together  pell-mell  in  pitiful  misery, 
looking  like  frightened  emigrants  crowded 
together  in  the  hold  of  a  ship. 

It  is  a  stirring,  noisy,  restless  company, 
crowded  together  in  too  small  a  space  ;  clothes 
are  drying  on  lines  stretched  from  one  wall  to 


38  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  other,  and  the  air  is  unbreathable.  We 
sing  and  smoke — although  it  is  quite  against 
the  rules — we  argue  and  quarrel ;  some  play 
cards,  and  others,  half  dressed,  try  to  wash 
themselves.  Vermin  swarms  on  the  insuf- 


ficient  supply  of  mattresses  on  which  we  sleep, 
side  by  side,  for  we  do  not  even  have  our  beds 
to  ourselves. 

During  the  winter,  as  it  was  very  cold,  and 
as  we  were  only  allowed  an  absurdly  small 
quantity  of  coal  (though  we  had  magnificent 


THE  CAMP  39 

stoves),  it  was  only  the  heat  from  all  our  bodies 
squeezed  tightly  together  that  kept  us  from 
freezing.  The  windows  were  rarely  opened, 
and  directly  they  were  open  there  were  violent 
protests,  for  some  preferred  this  horrible  air, 
thick  with  the  smell  of  tobacco  smoke,  sweat, 


and  human  breath,  to  the  damp  and  cold 
outside.  When  summer  came,  most  of  us 
were  sent  to  work,  and  the  hut  was  less 
uninhabitable. 

The  interpreter  and  the  captain  of  the  hut 
live  in  a  little  room  partitioned  off  from  the 
common  room.  Some  of  these  rooms,  which 
are  furnished,  by  some  miracle  of  ingenuity, 


4o  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

almost  elegantly,  have  a  friendly  and  familiar 
air,  which  is  some  alleviation  of  captivity. 
Some  men  sent  for  paper  from  the  town  to  hang 
their  walls,  and  had  a  table  and  stools  made 
for  them  by  the  Russians.  Artists  hung 
water-colours  on  the  walls  and  pinned  up 
charcoal  sketches.  And,  among  all  this 
wretchedness,  these  little  rooms  were  gracious 
and  pleasant  retreats,  even  though  they  were 
not  entirely  free  from  vermin,  and  although 
the  snow  brought  in  in  winter  by  all  the  iron- 
shod  shoes  and  sabots  melted  in  the  warmth 
within,  as  it  did  in  the  huts,  and  kept  them 
constantly  damp. 

The  prisoner's  life  begins  before  daybreak, 
and  a  sad  and  grey  existence  it  is.  The  section 
for  the  day  provides  men  whose  duty  it  is  to  go 
to  the  kitchens  for  coffee.  It  is  a  dubious  and 
darkish  liquid — probably  roasted  acorns  or 
barley,  and  without  any  sugar — but  it  is  hot, 
and  that  is  all  we  have  a  right  to  expect.  The 
room  wakes  up,  and  those  careful  souls  who 
went  almost  supperless  to  bed  have  a  little  bit 


THE  CAMP  43 

of  horrible  K.K.  bread  to  dip  in  the  inky 
beverage. 

Shortly  afterwards  German  non-commis- 
sioned officers  turn  every  one  out  with  kicks 
and  shouts  of  "  A  us  !  aus  /"  This  is  for  the 
roll-call.  We  are  drawn  up  for  an  hour  and 
sometimes  longer.  In  winter  the  bitter  cold 
gnawed  at  our  feet  and  our  fingers.  The 
Germans  had  to  call  the  roll,  and  that  takes 
time  :  the  numbers  are  never  right.  There 
are  always  too  many  or  too  few  of  us,  and 
we  are  counted  again,  and  again,  and  again. 
When  that  is  over  the  section  is  given  bread, 
and  distribute  it — an  important  matter  ! 

In  a  prisoner's  camp,  bread  is  a  precious 
commodity  and  extremely  scarce.  It  is  not 
sold  at  the  canteen  and  every  month  the  ration 
is  slightly  reduced.  At  the  present  moment  a 
small  bit  has  to  last  all  day.  It  is  dark,  close, 
damp  and  pasty  stuff,  the  product  of  some 
elaborate  chemical  formula,  bitter  and  sour  in 
taste,  and  with  a  crust  hard  enough  to  break 
one's  teeth.  Yet  you  should  see  how  carefully 


44 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


and  respectfully  it  is  divided.  In  some  of  the 
huts  they  have  made  scales,  so  that  every  one 
may  have  his  due  allowance  to  a  grain  ;  in 
others  it  is  left  to  chance  ;  after  it  is  cut  up 
every  man  receives  a  number.  It  is  a  lottery, 
and  any  one  who  gets  a  piece  a  little  bigger 
than  the  others  is  the  object  of  bitter  envy. 

At  half-past  ten,  soup.  It  comes  in  large 
iron  cans  carried  by  four  men.  Prisoners, 
bowl  in  hand,  are  drawn  up,  and  the  distribu- 


THE  CAMP 


45 


tion  begins.  Every  one  has  a  right  to  a  ladle- 
ful, — nearly  a  pint  of  soup.  One  day  it  is 
meat  soup,  and  the  next  a  vegetable  soup. 
On  the  vegetable  days  it  consists  of  a  flour  of 
vegetables  in  water,  sometimes  too  salt  and 
sometimes  without  any  salt,  or  else  barley  or 
rice.  On  meat  days  bits  of  chopped  meat  are 
added,  and  such  meat ! — udders  and  garbage, 
liver,  heart,  and  milt.  I  feel  sick  when  I 
remember  it. 


46  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

The  evening  soup  was  perhaps  worse : 
linseed,  millet,  flour  and  tapioca  boiled  in  water 
without  either  salt  or  sugar  ;  and  this  when  it- 
cooled  became  a  solid  paste.  Or  perhaps  we 
were  given  potatoes  only  fit  for  pigs,  hardly 
washed  at  all,  and  cooked  in  their  jackets,  with 
occasionally  a  piece  of  cold  black  pudding 
(which  was  often  bad)  or  a  raw  salted  herring. 
Imagine  the  horror  of  a  poor  famished  prisoner 
as  he  bites  this  raw  fish,  while  the  salt  takes 

the  skin  off  his  mouth  ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

We  did  no  work  in  the  winter,  and  the  empty 
days  dragged  on  monotonously.  After  the 
evening  soup,  when  our  tasks  were  done,  we 
became  even  more  sad  and  cheerless.  We 
talked  of  the  war,  and  told  stories  of  battles  ; 
the  wounded  repeated  the  same  tales  of  the 
atrocities  they  had  seen  and  spoke  of  their 
sufferings  ;  the  Belgian  civilians  spoke  of  the 
horrors  of  the  invasion  of  their  country,  of  the 
bodies  of  violated  women  that  were  found  in 
the  fields,  of  mutilated  men  and  children,  of 


THE  CAMP  47 

whole  villages  made  to  march  in  front  of  the 
German  lines,  of  looting  and  drunken  revels, 
of  the  German  soldiers  with  the  spiked  helmets. 
Then  silence  and  the  night,  softly  wrapping 
all  things  in  its  mystery.  We  think  of  home, 
and  of  our  loved  ones,  of  the  days  when  we 
marched,  bayonet  in  hand,  along  the  roads  of 
France,  facing  machine-gun  fire.  How  we 
longed  for  those  days,  and  with  what  passionate 
joy  we  wished  to  advance  again,  if  it  were  but 
possible  !  But  we  are  nothing — mere  captive 
animals.  We  have  the  horrible  feeling  of  being 
deserted,  lost,  and  linked  to  life  only  by  the 
slender  thread  of  the  post.  That  is  all  that 
matters  here,  the  letters  and  the  parcels  which 
keep  us  from  starvation. 

When  the  spring  came  we  worked.  Those 
who  go  out  to  work  daily  come  back  in  files, 
exhausted,  in  the  evening  ;  but  most  of  the 
workers  sleep  where  they  work,  in  factories 
and  sheds.  We  only  saw  them  when  they  were 
brought  back  with  limbs  or  ribs  broken  in  an 
accident  at  the  mine,  borne  on  a  stretcher  to 


48  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  hospital.  And  sometimes  at  nightfall 
another  convoy  used  to  leave  the  camp. 
Guards  with  black  cloaks  and  fixed  bayonets 
served  as  its  escort,  and  our  red-trousered 
soldiers  drew  a  cart  on  which  was  bound 
the  coffin  of  some  poor  lad  who  had  died  in 
camp  of  fever  or  tuberculosis.  His  hour  had 
not  struck  amid  the  roar  of  the  guns  and  the 
hiss  of  bullets ;  it  came  for  him  in  this  heavy, 
hostile,  and  venomous  country  of  our  foes.  .  .  . 
We  go  to  bed,  rolled  up  in  our  blankets,  and 
try  to  get  to  sleep  as  quickly  as  we  can  before 
another  day  begins  in  the  huts  and  worksheds, 
— a  day  as  empty,  as  sad,  and  as  monotonous 
as  the  rest  of  them. 


THE   GERMANS   AND   US 


r  2 


Non  licet  omnibus.  ...  It  is  not  every  little 
German  town  that  is  lucky  enough  to  have  a 
prisoners'  camp.  Happy  the  town  that  has 
one,  for  the  camp  is  a  great  attraction !  For 
families  that  perhaps  have  never  had  a  day's 
amusement  it  is  as  entertaining  in  its  way  as  a 
negro  village  or  a  Touareg  hut. 

So  people  came  in  crowds  to  inspect  us,  and 
see  various  specimens  of  the  race  hostile  to 
Germany  safe  behind  barbed  wire.  It  diverted 
them,  and  at  the  same  time  it  was  a  tribute  to 
the  military  power  of  the  great  kingdom  of  the 
Boches,  and  an  amusement  that  never  palled. 
They  brought  opera-glasses  to  see  us  more 
distinctly.  The  native  Moroccan  troops  and 


54 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


the  kilted  Scots  caused  great  hilarity,  and  the 
sight  of  the  wounded  was  a  stimulus  to  their 
patriotic  feelings.  Old  men  shook  their  fists, 
called  us  names,  and  waved  their  sticks  and 
umbrellas  when  they  caught  sight  of  crutches 
and  empty  sleeves.  On 
Sundays  people  from 
the  neighbouring  villages 
flocked  to  see  us  as  well 
as  the  townsfolk.  The 
women  in  their  Sunday 
best  (a  wonderful  sight ! 
it  was  our  turn  to  laugh 
then)  passed  by  our 

P^ 

wire  fence,  and  their  ridi- 
culous little  boy-scouts, 
short  and  spectacled,  came  by,  waving  flags 
and  preceded  by  fifes  and  drums.  Every  one 
was  surprised  and  amused  at  the  show,  and 
there  were  serious  and  well-informed  men 
among  the  crowd  who,  without  any  apparent 
hostility,  "  described  and  explained "  the 
prisoners.  But  they  had  no  idea  that  they, 


THE   GERMANS   AND   US          55 

too,  were  a  spectacle  ;  and  they  were  very 
much  surprised  when  prisoners,  starving  and 
ragged,  strolled  about  singing  as  if  to  brave 
that  crowd  of  idle  sightseers.  It  was  months 
— months  of  weariness  and  misery — before 


this  spirit  of  courageous  gaiety  was  a  little 
dashed  and  diminished,  for  it  was  a  gaiety 
that  told  the  world  that  we  were  Frenchmen 
and  did  not  admit  defeat. 

We  noticed  from  the  very  first  day  that  the 
German  public  had  a  sort  of  admiration  for 
us — an  amused  and  slightly  contemptuous 


56  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

admiration,  it  is  true.  They  feel  there  is  some- 
thing lacking  in  us,  and  that  something  is 
German  Kultur.  They  do  not  dislike  the 
French,  who  are,  they  think,  an  agreeable, 
frivolous,  and  superficial  people,  who  have 
been  duped  by  the  English.  .  .  . 

I  have  often  heard  this  said  by  both  civilians 
and  soldiers  in  Germany.  Some  of  them  even 
add  that  before  the  end  of  the  war  France  and 
Germany  will  unite  to  attack  England.  They 
tell  you  this  grotesque  nonsense  simply,  and 
with  a  candid  and  childlike  good  faith. 

The  English,  on  the  other  hand,  are  hated 
with  a  bitter  hate,  which  is  only  equalled  by 
their  contempt  for  the  Russians. 

Our  guards  hold  very  much  the  same 
opinions.  They  are  old  men  of  the  Land- 
sturm,  who  are  most  anxious  for  the  war  to 
end.  They  cannot  imagine  a  conquered 
Germany,  but  they  tell  some  of  us  that  they 
no  longer  expect  a  decisive  victory. 

These  Boche  Territorials  are  absurdly  simple- 
minded.  Discipline  to  them  is  such  a  sacred 


THE   GERMANS   AND  US 


57 


thing  that  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  any  one 
would  dare  to  break  a  rule.  One  day  one  of 
our  men,  for  a  bet,  walked  boldly  to  the  gate  of 
the  camp,  opened  it  under  the  very  eyes  of  the 
sentry,  who  never  stirred,  coolly  shut  it,  and 
joined  a  working  party  which  was  passing  in 


the  road,  and  returned  to  camp  without  the 
soldiers  realising  the  nature  of  the  harmless 
and  daring  trick  of  which  they  were  the  vic- 
tims. German  soldiers  are  not  bad  fellows, 
but  their  non-commissioned  officers  are  some- 
times sad  brutes.  Cuffs,  kicks,  blows  with  a 
sword,  are  of  common  occurrence,  but  you  can 
see  that  they  have  got  into  the  habit,  and  some 


58  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

are  quite  unintentionally  brutal.  Others  are 
more  deliberate  in  their  methods  ;  one  man, 
for  instance,  invented  an  amusement  which 
made  him  laugh  till  the  tears  ran  down  his 
face.  He  used  to  go  to  the  kitchen  and  fill  a 
can  with  soup,  which  he  set  before  the  door  of  a 
hut,  and  invited  the  inmates  to  come  and  eat. 
Naturally  there  was  a  wild  rush  for  their  bowls, 
and  every  time  a  head  or  a  hand  was  stretched 
out  the  Boche  rapped  it  with  a  heavy  iron 
ladle  and  rocked  with  laughter. 

Whatever  his  rank  or  his  education,  the 
Boche  is  first  and  foremost  a  Boche  ;  that  is, 
a  liar  and  a  hypocrite.  To  be  a  liar  is  no  dis- 
grace in  Germany  any  more  than  to  be  tactless. 
They  do  not  know  what  the  word  means.  The 
German  surgeon-major  of  the  hospital  where  I 
was  orderly,  wishing  to  be  agreeable,  brought 
us  some  meat.  It  was  kind  of  him,  but,  what 
was  less  kind,  he  had  wrapped  the  food  in  a 
newspaper  which  displayed  on  the  margin  the 
news  of  a  French  defeat  and  the  number  of 
prisoners  taken, 


THE   GERMANS   AND  US 


59 


As  he  watched  to  see  what  effect  his  strange 
present  would  have  on  us  his  smile  was  a  thing 
worth  seeing.  A  book  had  been  printed  in 
Germany  called  Perfide  Albion,  a  collection  of 
all  the  French  caricatures  at  the  time  of  the 


Fashoda  incident.  The  very  first  thing  one 
officer  I  knew  did — an  officer  who  was  on  good 
terms  with  our  surgeon-majors — was  to  take 
this  book  directly  it  was  published  to  the 
English  major  at  the  hospital.  The  latter  only 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  returned  it  un- 
opened to  his  German  colleague. 


60  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

The  commandant  of  the  camp  wanted  one 
day  to  reward  two  prisoners  of  whom  he  had 
good  reports.  He  sent  for  them  to  his  office, 
and  gave  each  a  small  parcel.  Inside  were 
cigarettes,  chocolates,  and  tins  of  sardines  (all 
of  French  brands)  which  had  been  stolen  from 
the  parcels  sent  to  the  prisoners. 

For  a  considerable  time  parcels  sent  from 
France  went  astray  ;  but  since  the  spring  this 
no  longer  happens,  at  any  rate  in  the  camp  I 
came  from,  and  I  believe  the  order  that  parcels 
should  not  be  touched  is  now  enforced  every- 
where. 

The  prisoner  is  given  his  parcels  intact  after 
they  have  been  opened  and  searched  in  his 
presence  ;  the  only  things  that  are  removed 
are  things  that  have  gone  bad,  such  as  mouldy 
bread.  It  is  possible  that  lately  jars  of  jam 
have  been  opened,  on  suspicion  that  they  con- 
tained letters  or  newspapers,  but  this  was  not 
the  general  rule  ;  and  there  is  absolutely  no 
reason  to  fear  that  the  Germans  steal  part  of 
the  provisions  sent  to  a  husband  or  son  who  is 
a  prisoner. 


THE   GERMANS   AND   US          63 

Parcels  are  brought  to  the  camp  by  three  big 
carts,    and    their    distribution   lasts    all   day. 
Dear  parcels,  what  a  number  of  poor  fellows 
you  have  saved  !     Most  of  the  prisoners  live 
on  what  is  sent  them.     Solid  food  should  be 
sent,  and  biscuits,  which  take  the  place  of  the 
horrible  K.K.  bread.     If  jam  is  not  a  food 
recommended  by  hygienic  authorities  it  is  at 
any  rate  better  than  the  stuff  served  out  to 
prisoners  in   Germany.     Those  are  delightful 
and  most  moving  moments  when  the  poor 
exile  receives  the  parcels  which  have  come  from 
such  a  distance,  and  which  bring  him  a  little 
bit  of  France.     More  than  one  of  us  has  felt  a 
lump  in  his  throat,  just  like  a  little  boy  on  the 
verge  of  tears.     But  our  comrades  are  looking 
on  with  interest,  so  we  dare  not  show  our  weak- 
ness, and  our  emotion  turns  to  gaiety.     We 
examine  the  parcels  minutely,  and  argue  about 
what  we  are  unwrapping,  and  there  are  always 
anecdotes  to  tell  as  we  are  doing  so.     It  is 
as    if   these  wrappings,  the   little  boxes  and 
mysterious  packets  bring  with  them  airs  of  our 


64  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

own  country,  and  breathing  that  air,  our 
tongues  are  loosened. 

Then  there  are  letters  ;  letters  are  the  most 
important  of  all.  They  are  given  out  daily. 
They  are  weeks  and  sometimes  months  on  the 
way,  but  how  anxious  we  are  to  read  them.  We 
first  hurry  through  them  ;  we  want  to  hear  what 
has  happened  to  everybody,  to  our  friends  who 
have  left  for  the  front  and  those  who  are  left 
behind,  and  to  hear  of  the  love  and  troubles 
of  those  we  have  left  at  home.  There  is  not 
much  of  this  to  be  learnt  from  the  little  card 
that  has  been  so  long  on  the  way.  Then  we 
read  it  again  more  carefully,  and  then  again. 
We  can  guess  all  it  does  not  say ;  we  read  this 
card  with  our  heart,  and  find  in  it  all  that  passed 
unseen  and  unnoticed  by  the  eyes  of  strangers, 
the  eyes  of  our  enemies  who  read  those  dear 
lines  :  and  we  can  find  shelter  in  the  love  and 
the  agonised  tenderness  of  a  wife,  or  the  girl 
we  are  engaged  to,  or  a  mother.  That  does  us 
good — and  hurts  us,  too,  a  little. 

Then  there  are  money  orders.     They  come 


THE  GERMANS   AND   US          65 

fairly  regularly,  and  they  are  given  out  in 
accordance  with  each  camp's  regulations. 
They  are  sometimes  paid  in  full,  or  in  instal- 
ments of  ten  marks  every  ten  days,  but  they 
are  always  paid  in  the  end.  Money  is  not  so 
good  as  parcels,  but  can  be  very  useful.  In 
nearly  all  the  camps  there  is  a  canteen  where 
tobacco  is  sold  ;  and  ham,  sausages,  and  red 
herrings  are  often  sold,  but  naturally  no  bread. 
It  is  also  possible  to  buy  things  in  the  town 
with  money,  though  that  is  against  the  rules. 
We  run  the  risk  of  being  punished,  for  cap- 
tivity is  not  all  we  are  liable  to  :  there  is  also  a 
possibility  of  punishments. 

First  the  post,  then  prison,  and  lastly  court- 
martial  and  confinement  in  a  fortress. 

The  post  is  a  sort  of  pillory.  Men  are  bound 
to  it,  with  their  feet  and  hands  tied  by  cords, 
for  one,  two,  or  three  hours.  It  is  the  mildest 
of  the  punishments.  Prison  is  more  serious  : 
a  man  is  shut  up  in  a  cell,  with  a  bare  board  for 
a  bed  and  no  blanket,  and  with  a  piece  of  bread 
as  his  only  food.  Every  fourth  day  soup  and 


66  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

a  mattress  are  allowed.  These  are  punishments 
for  mild  offences.  In  more  serious  cases  a 
prisoner  is  confined  in  total  darkness.  It  is 
a  very  depressing  treatment,  and  men  are 
imprisoned  in  this  manner  for  a  week,  ten, 
fifteen,  or  twenty  days,  and  sometimes  for 
months,  when  the  case  has  come  before  a  court- 
martial.  Smoking  in  the  huts  is  punished  by 
a  week  in  prison  ;  and  one  of  us  was  imprisoned 
for  three  weeks  for  having  written  in  a  note  to 
a  comrade  that  Germany  was  kapout.  An 
escape  without  damage  to  property  or  violence 
is  punished  with  a  week  or  a  fortnight  in 
prison  for  the  first  offence.  In  the  case  of  a 
second  attempt  the  punishment  is  much  more 
severe. 

When  a  man  has  served  his  time  in  prison 
he  is  often  ripe  for  the  hospital.  The  camp 
hospital  is  installed  in  one  of  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  immense  wire  cage,  and  consists 
of  three  wooden  huts,  of  a  somewhat  different 
design  from  the  others.  It,  too,  is  a  model 
hospital  of  the  Universal  Exhibition  type,  but 


THE  GERMANS   AND   US 


67 


unfortunately  it  is  also  made  in  Germany. 
Each  of  the  huts  has  a  bathroom  and  a  plenti- 
ful supply  of  windows  and  ventilating  traps ; 
but  there  are  cracks  between  the  boards,  the 
patients  have  beds,  but 
they  had  no  bed-clothes 
before  May  I5th,  and  their 
food  is  the  same  as  that 
of  the  other  prisoners. 
Some  nights  this  winter 
were  so  cold  that  medi- 
cines froze  in  the  bottles. 
It  is  much  better  not  to 
be  in  hospital. 

The  medical  service  is 
in  the  hands  of  French 
doctors  and  orderlies, 
under  a  German  doctor. 
Unfortunately  they  are  indifferently  supplied 
with  necessaries,  and  some  medicines  are 
unobtainable.  The  Germans  refuse  to  sanc- 
tion nearly  all  the  improvements  which  the 
French  doctors  demand  ;  and  they  are  sus- 


68  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

picious  of  them.  They  suspect  everybody  and 
everything.  The  head  doctor  (a  surgeon-major), 
who  just  ventured  to  ask  help  from  France  for 
the  wretched  prisoners  when  they  were  starving 
and  ill  clad,  was  punished  with  imprisonment. 
But,  fortunately,  his  action  bore  fruit,  and  it  is 
thanks  to  him  that  quantities  of  supplies  have 
been  sent. 

Our  camp  had  no  epidemic,  so  the  mortality 
was  not  very  high.  There  were  a  hundred 
deaths  in  nine  months  among  a  population  of 
fifteen  thousand  prisoners.  But  I  do  not  think 
this  is  an  average  for  other  camps. 

A  corner  of  the  town  cemetery  is  kept  for 
the  prisoners.  The  graves  are  ranged  in  neat 
rows,  and  enough  money  has  been  collected  in 
the  camp  to  pay  for  a  monument.  It  is  nearly 
finished  now.  The  strong  lines  of  the  column 
of  stone  rise  above  a  simple  plinth  of  smooth 
stone,  a  melancholy  tribute  from  those  who 
still  may  hope  to  those  who  will  never  return. 


FIGHTING   DEPRESSION 


I  WONDER  if  any  one  who  has  not  experienced 
them  can  realise  the  feelings  of  a  soldier  trans- 
ported by  the  fortune  of  war  some  fifteen  hun- 
dred kilometres  from  his  native  land,  and  held 
captive  for  months  within  four  walls  of  barbed 
wire,  with  the  same  ugly  and  tedious  view 
always  before  him.  There  are  moments  when 
he  seriously  wonders  whether  he  will  ever  leave 
it.  So  many  days  and  weeks  go  by  without 
the  smallest  change  that  all  life  seems  frozen 
and  checked,  and  in  the  end  one  is  stupefied 
into  indifference  and  disgust  at  everything. 
That  is  the  torpor,  the  depression,  with  which 
the  prisoner  must  struggle  with  all  his  might, 
for  it  is  as  obstinate  an  enemy  as  the  foe  that 


72  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

faces  our  men  on  the  battlefield,  a  foe  that  is 
secret,  patient,  unrelenting,  and  intangible. 
It  takes  a  good  deal  of  courage  to  get  the  better 
of  it,  and  not  only  courage,  but  a  determination 
to  recover  and  react  against  this  dangerous 


torpor,  and  to  do  something,  it  does  not  matter 
what. 

It  is  probably  this  instinct  which  causes  the 
unfortunate  exile  to  revert  to  his  ordinary  way 
of  life  as  far  as  possible  in  these  new  conditions. 
That  is  why  a  prisoners'  camp  is  so  picturesque. 
The  native  Arab  troops,  with  their  red  and 
white  haiks  and  ample  burnouses,  bearing  them- 
selves proudly  like  barons  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
are  an  unexpected  and  exotic  element.  Before 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION  73 

all  the  Mohammedans  were  collected  in  one 
camp  they  were  like  tropical  birds,  scattered 
over   Germany.     They   are   magnificent   and 
extraordinary  men,  and  their 
ideas    of    warfare    are   not   of 
to-day ;    they   cannot   under- 
stand how  it  is  they  are  there, 
taken  captive  like  wild  beasts 
caught  in  a  trap.    They  needed 
all   their    fatalism    and    their 
absolute  conviction    that   this 
episode    was    written    in    the 
book  of  destiny  to  accept  their 
fate. 

Living  apart  from  their 
fellows,  they  remain  silent  and 
impenetrable,  squatting  on  the 
ground  or  rolled  up  in  their 
burnouses.  For  days  they  remain  impassive, 
and  are  only  roused  from  their  dreams  at  the 
hour  of  prayer,  when  they  pray  as  in  their  own 
country,  with  deep  bowings  and  prostrations, 
looking  towards  Mecca.  But  when  they  are 


74 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


together  they  become  living  and  sociable 
beings  again.  The  Germans  at  first  thought 
they  would  win  them  to  their  side.  A  Boche 


who  spoke  Arabic  told  them  that  a  Holy  War 
had  been  proclaimed,  that  the  Germans  never 
interfered  in  religious  matters,  and  that,  if 
they  liked,  they  might  take  their  horses  and 
arms  again  and  fight  under  the  Prophet's 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION          75 

banner  in  Turkey.  It  was  a  clever  move,  but 
the  Arabs  refused,  saying  that  they  were  first 
and  foremost  French  subjects  and  wished  to 
remain  so.  The  Germans,  however,  did  not 
give  up  hopes  of  them,  and  treated  them 
with  a  certain  amount  of  indulgence,  allowing 
them  the  privilege  of  living  together  in  the 
same  hut. 

This  hut  presents  a  strange  appearance. 
One  would  think  one  was  in  the  depths  of 
Algeria.  Arabs,  squatting  or  sitting  on  rugs, 
are  smoking  or  talking  in  their  sedate  and 
dignified  manner.  On  the  walls  objects  of  all 
sorts  and  garments  of  every  hue  hang  in  a 
strange  medley  of  colour.  As  in  a  Moorish 
cafe,  they  spend  their  days  in  dreaming,  in 
chanting  prayers,  and  in  telling  one  another 
interminable  and  marvellous  stories. 

Some  of  them  can  speak  French,  and  there 
are  even  one  or  two  who  have  been  educated 
in  French  schools,  and  who  write  verses. 
Many  are  very  rich,  and  own  immense  flocks 
of  sheep,  fine  horses,  and  wide  domains  that 


76  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

stretch  away  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 
Imagine  how  they  hate  the  life  here,  in  a  cage, 
with  the  horrible  soup  in  which  there  is  always 
some  pork,  which  is  un- 
clean meat  forbidden  by 
the  Prophet,  for  their  only 
food  !  The  zealots  among 
them  observe  this  rule 
literally,  and  only  eat  on 
fish-days.  On  other  days 
they  have  their  morn- 
ing coffee  and  a  little 
bread  ;  but  most  of  them 
only  refuse  sausages  and 
black  puddings. 

They  keep  the  great 
festivals  of  their  faith. 
Last  November  their  feast 
of  sheep  was  celebrated 
with  some  magnificence.  They  spent  all  the 
night  in  prayer  and  in  reciting  the  Koran, 
and  in  the  morning,  according  to  the  law, 
they  gave  away  a  portion  of  their  goods  to 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION          79 

the  poor — that  is  to  say,  the  Russians, 
whom  they  stuffed  with  bread,  jam,  and 
sausages  bought  at  the  canteen.  It  was 
raining,  and  the  festival,  which  they  usually 
held  in  the  sunlight  under  the  wide  blue 
African  skies,  was  a  lamentable  affair.  One 
of  them  told  me  he  was  so  downhearted  that 
day  that  he  went  out  of  the  hut  to  weep  and 
wished  to  kill  himself.  What  a  poignant  feel- 
ing of  exile  it  gave  one,  amid  the  fog  and  cold 
and  wind,  to  see  this  Arab,  with  the  head  of  a 
Moorish  chieftain,  wading  through  the  mud, 
splashing  his  white  trousers,  his  red  boots,  and 
even  his  spotless  haik,  and  tucking  up  his 
cloak  to  wash  his  hands  in  his  bowl  before 
offering  up  his  prayers  to  Allah  beneath  the 
heavy  sky  of  Germany  ! 

The  Russians  are  a  very  different  group. 
Poor  dear  fellows,  they  are  the  unhappiest  of 
us  all.  The  Germans  affect  to  despise  them, 
have  no  scruples  about  harassing  and  ill- 
treating  them.  They  have  no  money,  and  get 
no  supplies  from  their  far-off  homes  ;  so  they 


8o  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

are  hungrier  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  their 
appetite  is  something  ferocious. 

But  a  stranger's  first  impression  on  seeing 
so  much  wretchedness  and  privation  is  cor- 
rected when  he  comes  to  know  them  better. 
Then  he  sees  that  these  poor  fellows  have  very 
kindly  and  childlike  eyes,  and  good-natured 
smiles  that  light  up  their  faces  ;  that  they  are 
affectionate  and  willing,  and  often  extremely 
bright  and  intelligent.  Is  it  their  fault  that 
they  are  unhappy  and  hungry  ?  They  get 
practically  nothing  from  their  homes,  and  yet 
how  tenderly  they  think  of  them,  how  they 
love  to  recall  them  and  to  lose  themselves  in 
their  memories.  They  often  get  together  to 
sing  (some  of  them  have  magnificent  voices), 
and  sing  part-songs  with  a  great  deal  of  feeling. 
They  are  sweet  and  melancholy,  with  some- 
thing wild  and  fierce  in  them  ;  and  all  are 
steeped  in  a  poignant  sadness  ;  but  occa- 
sionally they  sing  a  gay  and  joyous  song,  in 
which  one  man  sings  a  verse,  and  the  refrain 
is  sung  in  chorus.  The  subject  must  be  some 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION          83 

comic  episode,  for  the  rhythm  grows  faster  as 
the  song  proceeds,  and  there  are  bursts  of 
laughter  and  broad  smiles.  There  are  whistles 
which  punctuate  and  keep  the  rhythm  of  the 
song,  which  hurries  on  faster  and  faster ; 


hands  are  clapped,  and  feet  beat  time,  until  one 
of  the  singers  leaves  the  group,  as  if  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  begins  to  dance,  with 
arms  akimbo.  The  dance  becomes  an  animated 
pantomime,  full  of  absurdly  comic  contortions  ; 
and  the  music  hurries  faster  and  ever  faster, 
until  the  dancers,  who  crouch  and  kick  their 


84  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

heels  forward  with  frenzied  speed,  break  into  a 
mad  Cossack  dance. 

But  it  is  at  the  close  of  the  day  that  these 
poor  Russians  are  most  characteristically 
Russian  in  spirit,  as  if  they  wished  to  "  be 
themselves  again "  for  a  little  before  they 
sleep  and  revisit  in  their  dreams  their  homes, 
their  wives  and  children.  It  is  at  their  evening 
prayer,  where  one  recites  the  prayer  and  the 
rest  sing  the  responses.  They  put  all  their 
soul  into  this  music,  which  is  sung  softly. 
Sometimes,  when  the  doors  are  shut,  and  in 
even  softer  tones,  there  rise  the  broad,  calm, 
and  powerful  strains  of  a  song  which  is  for- 
bidden. 

The  Russians  are  very  skilful  in  manufactur- 
ing all  sorts  of  things  out  of  odds  and  ends, 
such  as  bits  of  board  or  old  tins.  They  cut  out 
and  carve  with  real  artistic  feeling  with  the 
primitive  knives  they  have  fashioned  out  of 
fragments  of  barrel  hoops.  They  make  crosses 
of  a  mosaic  of  small  bits  of  wood  ;  they  cut  a 
thin  board  into  fine  shavings  in  imitation  of 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION 


the  delicate  plumage  of  a  peacock  with  out- 
spread wings  ;  they  carve  a  Cossack  and  his 
horse,  and  little  jointed  figures,  cigarette 
boxes,  and  aeroplanes.  They  have  improved 
on  the  knife  and  made 
it  flexible,  and  have 
fixed  a  fork  to  the 
handle.  They  are  the 
most  ingenious  of  our 
handicraftsmen. 

But  the  French  also 
work  :  they  make 
nets,  and  rings  out  of 
chasseur  a  pied  but- 
tons, and  the  tailors 
make  caps  and  socks 
out  of  pieces  cut 
from  coat-tails,  and 
wallets  and  ties  out  of  parcel-wrappings. 

In  a  prisoners'  camp  the  small  dealers  are 
the  most  curious  types.  All  sorts  of  things  are 
bought  and  sold  ;  and  the  crowd  is  the  most 
picturesque  imaginable.  Men  with  a  box  of 


86  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

cigars  in  their  hands,  and  a  pile  of  match-boxes, 
are  crying :  "  Two  cigars  for  three  German 
pence ! "  Others  offer  hand-cut  cigarette  papers 
to  smokers.  This  is  a  curious  industry,  but 
supplies  a  want.  In  Germany  cigarette  paper 
is  very  heavily  taxed,  so  it  is  economical  to  use 
thin  paper  cut  into  small  squares  instead. 

There  are  a  great  many  Russians  at  this 
market,  selling  their  wares.  A  Zouave  waves 
a  white  linen  wallet,  shouting  :  "  Here  !  going 
for  thirty  pfennigs  ;  take  it,  it  is  the  last  of  my 
stock  "  ;  but  when  it  is  sold,  he  whips  another 
out  of  his  cape.  Men  haggle,  argue,  chaffer, 
make  a  pretence  of  going  away  and  return, 
and  the  vendor  lowers  his  price  a  sou,  or 
sometimes  two.  There  are  endless  discussions. 
A  German  soldier  or  a  working  party  push 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  but  it  soon  closes 
up  again.  Besides  these  vendors,  you  are  set 
upon  by  our  Russian  friends,  who  offer  you 
ikons  given  by  their  pope,  holy  medals,  and 
regimental  buttons,  like  so  many  friendly  and 
amicable  street  hawkers  ;  and  then  there  are 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION 


hawkers  who  cater  for  the  gourmands,  drawn 
up  in  a  line  by  a  hut.  These  vendors  offer  for 
sale  a  newly  opened  tin  of  pickled  herrings, 
a  packet  of  sugar,  and  a  pot  of  jam.  Others 
try  to  take  one  in,  offer- 
ing "  for  twenty  pfennigs 
a  dinner  with  courses, 
food  and  drink,  a  slice 
of  brawn,  and  a  bottle 
of  lemonade."  Kadour, 
a  huge  Algerian  sharp- 
shooter, is  holding  out  a 
can  of  hot  cocoa,  which  he 
sells  at  ten  pfennigs  a  glass, 
and  others  hawk  tins  of  roll 
mops,  sugar,  and  sausages 
they  have  bought  at  the 
canteen,  and  sell  with  a 
small  profit.  Sometimes  this  profit  was  too 
high,  and  that  was  because  at  first  it  was  very 
difficult  to  get  to  the  canteen.  Later,  when 
regulations  were  made  about  the  food,  and  the 
prices  were  put  up  in  each  hut,  the  business  of 


90  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

these  middlemen  came  to  an  end.  Many  of 
them  must  have  made  a  fortune,  or,  to  be 
correct,  some  ten  marks. 

One  of  these  dealers  had  the  ingenious  idea 
of  setting  up  a  lottery  with  a  wheel  he  had  made 
himself.  For  five  pfennigs  it  was  possible  to 

win  a  bottle  of  lemonade 
worth  ten  pfennigs,  and 
tickets  were  eagerly 
sought  after.  Another 
had  an  even  better  in- 
spiration ;  he  opened  a 
cafe.  Its  sign  was :  "The 
Veterans  of  the  Allies." 
All  winter  he  sold  tea, 
cocoa,  and  coffee  over 
a  counter  covered  with  a  sheet  of  zinc,  and 
when  the  summer  came  he  put  up  a  tent  and 
sold  lemonade.  His  business  prospers,  and  he 
has  provided  a  game  of  "  Aunt  Sally  "  for  his 
customers.  His  is  a  pleasant  stall,  the  drinks 
are  cool  and  freshly-made,  and  we  sit  in  the 
shade.  One  soldier  who  is  a  second-hand 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION          91 

dealer  in  civil  life  continues  his  trade  in  the 
camp.  He  buys  from  Peter  to  sell  to  Paul. 
He  is  also  allowed  the  monopoly  of  selling 
lemonade  during  concerts. 

For  there   are   concerts  in  nearly  all  the 


prisoners'  camps  in  Germany.  Ours,  if  I  may 
say  so,  is  badly  off  in  this  respect.  Not  that 
there  is  any  lack  of  goodwill  and  initiative  on 
our  part,  but  we  are  divided  into  groups  which 
keep  the  prisoners  apart,  and  interfere  with 
any  organisation.  Our  concerts,  therefore, 
were  local  efforts.  Luckily  for  us,  a  company 


92  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

from  another  camp  came  to  ours.  They  had 
painted  their  scenery  and  had  costumes. 
They  sang  Polin's  and  MayoPs  songs  in  a  frock 
coat  (for  a  coat  had  been  discovered  some- 
where) and  played  comedies.  There  were 


professionals  and  some  very  clever  amateurs 
among  them.  The  play  was  staged  as  in  a 
real  theatre,  the  curtain  was  made  of  bed- 
clothes, the  stage  of  tables,  and  the  box-office 
gave  us  passes  during  the  entr'acte.  But  the 
audience  consisted  only  of  this  company's 
members  ! 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION  93 

Dances  are  sometimes  given,  and  these  are 
extraordinary  in  their  general  effect.  The 
orchestra's  instruments  are  made  in  camp  out 
of  tins,  cigarette  boxes,  and  margarine  boxes. 
Out  of  these  tambourines,  violins  and 
violoncellos  are  made,  and,  after  playing 


restaurant  airs  for  the  soldiers  to  dance  to,  they 
change  their  repertory  on  Sunday  morning, 
and  perform  sacred  music  in  the  chapel.  Mass 
is  sung  in  the  chapel,  which  is  an  empty  hut, 
as  bare  as  the  rest.  The  altar,  covered  with 
red  material,  is  often  decked  with  a  bunch 
of  flowers,  and  the  priest  of  the  nearest  town 


94  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

lends  a  stole  and  surplice  to  the  priests  among 
the  prisoners  who  officiate.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  Christmas  mass,  which  was  cele- 


brated in  the  darkness  before  the  dawn  one 
cold  morning,  and  the  horrible  despair  which 
hung  over  the  camp  all  day.  Many  go  to  mass, 
and  it  is  a  lively  moment  when  they  leave  the 


FIGHTING  DEPRESSION          95 

chapel.  There  are  chance  meetings  and  gossip ; 
the  inevitable  hawkers  are  there  with  their 
wares,  and  there  is  a  chance  of  forgetting  we 
are  so  far  away  from  everything. 

But  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  keep  our  courage 
up,  and  in  spite  of  the  strange  and  picturesque 
aspects  of  the  camp  and  the  brave  jests  and 
laughter  in  the  midst  of  all  this  misery,  a 
prisoners'  camp  is  a  dreadful  place.  I  tell  all  my 
comrades  who  are  fighting,  anything  is  better 
than  prison  life,  even  a  severe  wound.  One 
has  the  feeling  of  being  degenerate  there  ;  one 
is  angry  and  contemptuous  of  oneself ;  one  is 
ashamed  of  one's  idleness,  while  others  are  at 
work  so  far  away  ;  and,  besides,  there  is  always 
fatigue,  exhaustion,  tuberculosis  on  the  look- 
out for  you,  and  albuminuria,  which  attacks 
so  many  who  are  half-starved. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  be  a  prisoner. 


ANSWERS   TO   QUESTIONS 


ANSWERS   TO  QUESTIONS 


Have  prisoners  any  plates  and  dishes,  and 
where  do  they  have  their  meals  ? 

EACH  prisoner  on  arriving  at  the  camp 
receives  a  spoon  and  a  tin,  or  more  usually  an 
enamel,  bowl.  It  is  a  sort  of  small  salad  bowl, 
holding  nearly  two  pints. 

When  the  soup,  which  is  brought  in  great 
iron  cans,  is  given  out,  the  prisoners  sit  upon 
their  mattresses  to  eat.  They  supplement  the 
wretched  food  I  have  described  with  what  they 
have  bought  at  the  canteen,  with  what  hawkers 
who  go  from  hut  to  hut  sell  them,  and  with 
provisions  sent  them  from  home.  They  have 


ioo  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

cause  to  bless  the  parcels,  and  those  who  send 
them. 


THE  CANTEEN 

Can  those  who  have  no  provisions  sent  them, 
but  have  a  little  money,  buy  what  is  necessary  at 
the  canteen  ? 

MORE  or  less.  A  certain  amount  of  eatable 
food  is  for  sale  at  the  canteen,  though  there  is 
not  much  choice,  for  the  commandant  of  the 
camp  keeps  it  under  close  supervision. 

Some  things  are  on  sale,  while  other  things 
are  forbidden.  At  Merseburg  prisoners  can 
buy  ham  at  fifty  pfennigs  for  one-fifth  of  a 
pound,  or  two  marks  fifty  a  pound ;  sausage 
is  a  little  cheaper ;  gruyere,  Dutch  cheese, 
sugar  (twenty  pfennigs  for  a  small  quantity), 
margarine  (sixty-five  pfennigs  the  half-pound), 
red  herrings  (ten  or  fifteen  pfennigs  apiece), 
and  occasionally — but  this  cannot  be  officially 
authorised — eggs  at  fifteen  or  twenty  pfennigs, 
cherries  (twenty  pfennigs  a  half-pound),  and 


104  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

salad  (ten  pfennigs).  In  the  matter  of  drinks 
there  is  a  choice  between  lemonade  (ten 
pfennigs  a  bottle  holding  three-quarters  of  a 
pint)  and  caramel  beer  at  fifteen  pfennigs,  the 
latter  a  dark  and  non-alcoholic  liquid  something 
like  flat  stout.  For  smokes,  there  are  cigarettes 
(ten  for  ten  pfennigs),  cigars  at  five  or  ten 
pfennigs,  and  German,  Swiss,  and  even  French 
army  tobacco.  It  is  a  mystery  how  this 
tobacco,  which  is  sold  at  forty  pfennigs  for 
three  and  a  half  ounces,  could  have  come  there. 

There  are  also  on  sale  at  the  canteen — and 
this  shows  the  commercial  genius  of  the 
Boches — many  things  which  are  not  necessities, 
but  which  are  there  to  attract  the  buyer,  for 
instance,  brushes,  string  for  making  nets, 
canvas  slippers,  travelling  bags,  mirrors,  and 
even  coloured  chalks,  notebooks,  automatic 
razors  and  many  other  things. 

In  the  little  square  hut  which  smells  de- 
lightfully of  groceries,  just  like  a  real  shop, 
the  Red  Cross  men  and  medical  officers  are 
alone  allowed.  The  other  prisoners  must 


ANSWERS  TO  QUESTIONS        107 

stand  at  the  door,  or  line  up  in  front  of  the  tiny 
window  where  goods  are  handed  out  to  them. 
The  man  who  keeps  the  canteen  does  a  good 
trade,  for  there  is  no  difficulty  about  making 
up  one's  mind  between  different  stores  at  the 
camp,  and  all  money  orders  necessarily  find 
their  way  to  the  one  canteen.  There  is  nothing 
else  to  spend  them  on. 


LETTERS 

How  are  letters  from  camp  sent,  and  how  do 
letters  from  home  arrive  ? 

ALAS  !  we  often  wished  we  knew. 

Many  people  in  France  have  passed  the 
winter,  the  spring  and  the  summer  hoping  for 
news  of  their  son  or  their  husband,  who  is  a 
prisoner  in  Germany.  Now  and  then  a  post- 
card arrives,  which  calms  their  anxiety  for  some 
days,  and  then  begins  another  period  of  anxious 
waiting  for  the  postman,  who  too  rarely  brings 
them  the  few  lines  stamped  with  the  blue 
stamp  of  the  censor's  office. 

Our  people's  anxiety  can  be  readily  under- 
stood, but  the  wretched  soldier  behind  the  wire 
fences  is  not  to  blame.  How  many  poor 
fellows  I  have  seen  weeping  when  they  get  such 
letters  full  of  reproaches.  It  is  one  of  the 


ANSWERS   TO   QUESTIONS        109 

prisoner's  greatest  trials  that  he  is  never  sure 
if  his  cards  arrive  or  when  they  arrive.  In  the 
camp  where  I  was,  it  was  long  before  the 
postal  service  was  organised  or  was  in  working 
order. 

At  first  there  were  no  rules.  The  prisoners 
took  advantage  of  this,  and  there  were  delays. 
Suddenly  we  were  allowed  to  write  one  post- 
card a  month :  that  was  in  December  ;  in 
February,  two  postcards  were  allowed,  and  at 
present  we  are  allowed  in  theory  to  write  four 
postcards  and  two  letters  a  month.  We  are 
allowed  to  write  them,  but  whether  they  arrive 
or  not  is  another  story. 

Every  Saturday  postcards  are  sold  for  one 
pfennig,  with  nine  lines  ruled  on  them,  on 
which  we  must  write  legibly,  without  mention- 
ing the  war  and  without  complaints,  for 
theoretically  the  prisoner  needs  nothing,  clothed 
and  fed  as  he  is  by  the  kindness  of  great 
Germany !  The  cards  are  given  on  Monday 
morning  to  the  Feldwebel*  who  takes  them  to 

*  Colour-sergeant. 


i  io  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  Kommandantur,  when  they  are  sent  to  the 
censor. 

This  is  a  lengthy  business,  lasting  days, 
weeks,  and  sometimes  months.  A  layer  of 
dust  slowly  settles  on  the  pile  of  cards,  and  the 
Boche  censor  takes  them  one  by  one,  reads 
them  line  by  line,  word  by  word,  wasting  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  looking  up  a  word  he  sus- 
pects of  a  double  meaning,  or  a  bit  of  patois 
he  does  not  understand,  in  a  dictionary.  The 
forbidden  words  are  crossed  out,  and  finally  the 
cards  are  posted,  and  set  out  for  France. 

Many  people  ask  me  if  there  are  camps  where 
writing  is  forbidden,  and  if  they  ought  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  a  prisoner  who  has  not  written 
since  last  autumn.  It  is  possible,  but  I  have 
only  seen  one  case  in  which  this  extraordinary 
measure  was  adopted,  and  the  prisoner  for- 
bidden to  write  to  his  family.  He  had  already 
been  punished  by  imprisonment. 

There  is,  however,  one  category  of  prisoners 
of  whom  no  news  is  heard  in  France.  These 
are  the  men  who  remain  in  hospital  in 


ANSWERS  TO  QUESTIONS        in 


Belgium    and    in    other    occupied    territory. 

They  are  sometimes  kept  there  a  very  long 

time  before  they  are  removed  to  a  German 

camp,   and  during   that   time 

their  family  can  learn  nothing 

about  them.     This  is  the  only 

hope  for  so  many  relatives  and 

women  who   are    waiting    for 

news. 

The  letters  that  come  here 
have  to  undergo  the  same 
examination  as  the  outgoing 
letters.  Every  word  is  weighed, 
and  that  takes  a  long  time,  but 
it  does  the  Germans  very  little 
good,  for  families  often  use 
codes  and  ingenious  combina- 
tions of  words  which  I  will  not  describe. 
French  is  an  admirable  language  ! 

The  censor  I  knew  was  a  German  who  had  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  French.  He  had  good 
reason  to  know  it,  for  before  the  mobilisation 
he  was  employed  in  a  large  shirt-shop  near  the 


ii2  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

Boulevards.  One  day  when  I  had  business 
with  him  he  said  to  me  :  "I  am  very  glad  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  for  after  the  war  I 
can  come  to  you  for  theatre  tickets  after  shop 
hours,  can't  I  ?  "  My  astonishment  at  this 
proposal  seemed  to  surprise  the  censor  from 
the  shirt-shop  enormously. 


IN  CASE  OF  FIRE 

AT  Merseburg,  apart  from  some  very  hard 
labour  outside  the  camp,  I  did  not  see  any 
operations  except  the  fire  drill. 

A  fire  in  camp  would  be  a  terrible  affair  :  all 
these  huts  of  wood,  covered  with  tarred  paper, 
heated  by  the  sun  all  day  in  summer,  and  with 
mattresses  inside  stuffed  with  shavings,  would 
burn  like  a  match.  So  strict  measures  are 
taken  in  case  of  fire. 

In  each  hut  there  are  great  vats  of  water  for 
"  first  aid  "  ;  and  in  addition  two  fire  brigades 
are  organised,  one  of  German,  the  other  of 
French  soldiers,  who  are  regularly  drilled  and 
see  that  the  waterpipes  are  in  good  order. 
As  for  the  prisoners,  a  notice  in  each  hut  gives 
directions  in  case  of  fire. 

A  bell  near  the  guardhouse  is  to  ring  while 


ii6  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

the  fire  lasts.  At  this  signal  all  the  prisoners 
are  to  cry :  "  Fire  !  fire  !  "  and  carrying  their 
bed-clothes,  rush  in  good  order  to  the  place 
where  the  roll  is  called  every  morning. 

This  spectacle  has  afforded  me  amusement 
several  times.  Directly  the  Boche  non-commis- 
sioned officer  enters,  crying  :  "  Fire  !"  there  is 
a  mad  rush.  We  know  that  it  is  only  "  in  fun," 
and  rush  out  shouting,  and  our  guards  are 
busy  hurrying  us  out ;  then  we  are  drawn  up, 
and  each  returns  quietly  to  the  hut.  There 
are  days  when  existence  is  so  dreary  that  we 
could  wish  to  hear  the  bell  rung  in  earnest,  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  something  new. 


MASS 

I  HAVE  mentioned  the  chapel ;  it  is  an  empty 
hut,  just  like  the  others.  The  walls  are  bare, 
and  posts  at  regular  intervals  support  the 
naked  beams  of  the  roof.  The  altar  stands  at 
the  far  end  of  the  hut.  It  is  very  plain,  con- 
sisting of  a  table  and  a  shelf  covered  with 
red  material.  There  is  a  crucifix  in  a  niche, 
and  on  each  side,  pinned  to  the  stuff,  chromo- 
lithographs representing  Christ  and  the  Virgin 
Mary.  The  missals  and  breviaries  and  two 
candles  are  the  only  other  features.  A  bench 
set  across  the  room  serves  as  a  screen. 

But  in  the  dim  light  of  this  great  hut  this 
simplicity  has  a  moving  power,  and  amidst  the 
ugliness  and  miseries  of  the  camp  this  red 
altar,  illumined  by  the  little  wavering  flames  of 
the  long  wax  candles,  looks  sumptuous  and 
magnificent.  It  is  the  gate  of  paradise. 


ii8  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

On  Sunday  morning  services  are  held 
uninterruptedly  from  seven  o'clock  till  eleven. 
At  ten  or  half-past  ten  high  mass  is  celebrated. 
These  services  are  moving  and  picturesque 
from  their  very  bareness  and  simplicity.  A 
priest — one  of  the  prisoners — wearing  a  surplice 
and  stole  lent  by  the  priest  from  the  nearest 
town,  says  mass,  assisted  by  a  soldier  as 
acolyte.  Another  priest,  clothed  in  white, 
gives  a  short  address,  in  which  he  speaks  of 
patience  and  resignation  and  encourages  the 
down-hearted.  There  are  always  a  good  many 
men  at  these  services.  We  all  crowd  in, 
jostling  one  another,  and  stand  with  our  kepis, 
our  caps,  in  our  hands.  There  is  a  medley  of 
uniforms,  for  there  are  soldiers  who  have  come 
straight  from  the  trenches  or  from  other  camps 
in  pale  blue,  the  old  uniform  of  the  early  days 
of  the  war  with  red  trousers,  Hussars,  infantry- 
men, chasseurs  d'Afrique,  and  even  some 
Catholic  Russians,  who  prostrate  themselves 
with  bowed  head.  All  sing  the  hymns  with 
great  fervour.  In  a  corner  there  are  violins 


ANSWERS  TO  QUESTIONS        121 

(made  with  real  skill  in  the  camp),  and  a  student 
of  the  Conservatoire  with  a  fine  voice  sings 
Gounod's  Ave  Maria  or  a  Piejesu  in  a  masterly 
manner  to  this  accompaniment. 

Some  of  these  masses  are  unforgettable.  I 
spoke  of  the  Christmas  mass.  I  think  it  was 
the  most  affecting  moment  of  our  captivity. 
At  first  it  was  to  have  been  said  at  midnight, 
but  there  were  too  many  difficulties,  and  it  was 
put  off  till  half-past  six  in  the  morning  of 
December  25th.  Christmas  Eve  had  been 
gloomy ;  some  of  the  prisoners  had  made 
attempts  at  gaiety,  and  had  sent  to  the  town 
for  food,  and  also  for  some  wine.  But  it  was 
no  good  :  our  thoughts  were  elsewhere  at  this 
melancholy  feast  and  we  dared  not  express 
them  for  fear  of  depressing  our  neighbours. 
We  made  an  effort  to  be  cheerful,  and  about 
half-past  eleven  some  one  suddenly  said : 
"Hush!  Listen." 

We  went  outside  and  found  everything 
covered  with  snow.  The  air  was  dry  and  cold, 
and  the  sound  of  bells,  thin,  tremulous  and 


122  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

musical,  broke  the  silence.  There  was  a 
midnight  mass  at  a  church  not  far  away  ;  there 
were  women  and  children  there,  and  warm 
houses  to  welcome  them  on  their  return  from 
church.  No  further  attempts  were  made  to 
conceal  our  feelings,  and  we  were  so  unhappy 
that  we  very  quickly  separated  and  went  to 
bed. 

Next  morning  they  were  all  at  chapel,  and 
others  besides  who  had  no  money  and  so  had 
not  had  a  better  meal  on  Christmas  Eve.  It 
was  cold  and  raw,  and  it  was  still  dark  in  the 
chapel,  where  the  only  light  came  from  the 
candles  ;  but  there  was  not  enough  to  show  the 
red  of  the  altar  hangings  ;  everything  looked 
black,  both  the  vaguely  visible  groups  of 
prisoners  and  the  form  of  the  priest  as  he 
performed  the  ritual  gestures. 

There  was  something  very  tragic  in  all  this 
wretchedness,  and  as  it  was  dark,  and  they  were 
unseen,  many  men  did  not  trouble  to  hide  their 
tears.  When  the  moment  for  prayer  came,  it 
was  like  the  noise  of  surges,  like  the  sound  of 


ANSWERS   TO  QUESTIONS        123 

a  sea  of  hundreds  of  voices  whispering  their 
supplications  for  those  they  had  left  in  their 
deserted  homes,  and  for  those  who  were  fighting. 
The  priest  lifted  the  Host,  and,  with  a  loud 
clattering  and  scraping  of  iron-shod  shoes  and 
sabots  on  the  floor,  all  fell  on  their  knees  and 
prayed,  hiding  their  faces  with  their  hands. 

Outside  day  began  to  dawn,  and  crept  along 
the  grey  huts,  a  dim  and  disconsolate  thing. 

"Noel/  Noel/  Noel!  .  .  .  A  happy  Christ- 
mas ! " 


WORK 


WHEN  spring  came  what  we  had  feared  all 
winter  came  too  :  the  Germans  made  their 
prisoners  work.  They  had  the  right  to.  The 
news  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm,  but 
volunteers  were  numerous  at  the  first  levy  that 
was  held.  The  Russians  were  the  first  to  put 
their  names  down.  Men  hoped  at  least  to  be 
a  little  better  fed,  and  perhaps  eat  their  fill. 
But  they  soon  changed  their  tune,  and  there 
was  a  difficulty  in  finding  fresh  labourers  ; 
there  were  no  more  volunteers,  and  men  were 
taken  as  they  came  in  order  on  the  list.  Those 
who  had  been  wounded  or  were  entered  as 
sick  had  to  pass  a  doctor's  examination. 

This  examination  by  the  French  doctors  was 
followed  by  a  second  examination  by  the 


128  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

German  surgeon-major,  and  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult to  get  exempted  from  work.  The  French 
majors  found  themselves  in  a  difficulty,  as  they 
were  torn  between  the  necessity  of  obeying  the 
German  instructions  and  the  wish  to  please 
their  countrymen.  It  must  be  said  of  them 
that  they  always  put  their  wishes  before  their 
duty  to  the  Germans,  and  only  sent  men  to 
work  when  they  really  had  no  choice. 

Once  the  list  is  complete,  no  more  discussion 
is  allowed,  and  some  day  an  order  comes  to 
start.  Then  we  have  to  be  quick  about  strap- 
ping our  bag,  and  saying  good-bye  to  our 
friends  before  we  set  out  fora  new  and  unknown 
destination. 

These  departures  are  important  events  in  the 
endless  monotony  of  camp  life.  Those  who  are 
leaving  spend  much  time  and  trouble  in  packing 
all  their  possessions.  This  is  a  matter  of  some 
difficulty,  if  they  have  many  parcels.  Into  bags 
and  wallets  they  have  manufactured  out  of 
wrappings  from  parcels  they  bundle  all  their 
property,  and  then  fasten  them  as  well  as  they 


WORK  129 

can  to  their  backs  with  string.  A  Boche  orders 
them  out  and  counts  them  over  and  over  again 
with  the  list  in  his  hand.  Those  who  remain 
behind  in  the  camp  are  also  waiting,  shaking 
hands,  and  giving  their  addresses  for  the  days 
when  war  will  be  over.  We  suddenly  realise 
that  lots  of  people  we  thought  we  did  not  care 
much  for  really  meant  something  to  us  after 
all ;  and  we  are  affected  by  the  thought  that 
we  may  never  meet  again.  Then  they  move 
off ;  the  working  party  form  up,  escorted  by 
armed  guards,  they  leave  the  camp  road,  they 
go  by  the  guardhouse,  the  great  gate  opens, 
and  they  are  in  the  road.  They  are  waving 
their  caps  and  kepis  and  handkerchiefs,  their 
boots  kick  up  the  dust, — real  dust  of  the 
high-road,  and  then  they  turn  by  the  bridge 
and  pass  out  of  sight.  .  .  .  We  look  at  one 
another  without  a  word,  because  our  thoughts 
are  too  deep  for  words.  It  is  not  only  the 
distress  at  losing  people  we  have  grown  accus- 
tomed to  :  we  have  seen  them  go,  and  seen  the 
door  of  our  cage  opened. 


130  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

As  I  was  employed  at  the  hospital,  I  never 
went  with  a  working  party,  although  an 
orderly  often  accompanied  the  gangs,  but  I 
have  seen  those  who  returned.  Most  of  those 
who  were  brought  back  on  a  stretcher  sent  to 
meet  them  at  the  station  after  some  terrible 
accident  were  treated  in  my  ward.  The  poor 
fellows  were  in  a  shocking  state.  As  they  were 
not  used  to  the  particular  kind  of  work  they 
were  obliged  to  do,  they  were  sometimes  rather 
clumsy  at  first,  and  there  were  accidents. 
For  instance,  a  grocer  unloading  heavy  con- 
signments of  steel  from  trucks  ends  by  drop- 
ping one  on  his  foot,  and  a  farmer  working  in  a 
mine  disappears  in  a  downfall.  When  they 
are  in  hospital,  with  their  heads  bandaged  and 
their  broken  limb  set  in  a  frame  or  in  plaster 
of  Paris,  they  talk  about  their  life  before  the 
accident,  and  what  they  say  is  not  encouraging 
for  the  next  working  party. 

There  are  good  places  and  bad  places,  as  is 
always  the  case,  decent  people  among  the 
employers  of  prison  labour  and  cowardly 


I  ^ 


WORK  133 

brutes.  Nearly  all  the  workers  made  the  same 
complaint  of  insufficient  food,  for  the  diet 
which  just  keeps  an  inactive  prisoner  alive  is 
not  much  more  plentiful  for  a  wretched  prisoner 
who  has  to  put  in  ten  or  twelve  hours  of  arduous 
and  exhausting  work.  This  refrain, "  We  have 
not  enough  to  eat,"  comes  in  all  the  wretched 
little  notes  the  workers  manage  to  smuggle  to 
their  comrades  in  camp. 

The  German  workmen  eat  very  little,  much 
less  than  our  men  at  home,  and  perhaps  in 
Germany  people  think  the  prisoners  are  very 
well  fed. 

The  working  parties  have  no  more  freedom 
than  behind  their  camp  fences.  They  live  in 
the  worksheds,  and  on  Sunday,  if  they  do  not 
work,  they  are  shut  up  all  day  in  the  sheds, 
where  they  sleep. 

Another  frequent  complaint  is  the  impossi- 
bility of  washing  after  a  hard  day's  or  night's 
work  in  a  coal-mine  or  a  brick-yard.  They  are 
for  days  and  sometimes  weeks  as  black  as  niggers 
with  the  grimy  coal  dust  that  sticks  to  the  skin. 


134  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

Those  who  work  in  the  open  air,  in  the  fields, 
and  in  the  forests  are  much  better  off.  Some 
men  I  knew  went  to  clear  some  land  for  an 
aviation  ground,  and  they  had  no  complaints 
to  make  of  their  absence  from  the  camp. 

The  guards,  the  peasants,  and  the  workmen 
with  whom  they  come  into  contact  are  also 
very  important  factors.  Sometimes  the  guard 
have  to  put  a  stop  to  sympathetic  demonstra- 
tions in  favour  of  French  prisoners,  and  some- 
times, but  more  rarely,  they  have  to  interfere 
in  their  defence.  In  some  workshops  German 
workmen  and  prisoners  work  side  by  side; 
naturally  there  is  less  friction.  The  soldier 
can  buy  himself  more  food  and  drink ;  and  in 
some  parts  of  the  country  the  women  and 
children — all  who  are  left — bear  no  grudge 
against  our  poor  fellows,  who  are,  like  them, 
victims  of  the  war.  Attempts  are  made  at 
conversation  ;  some  prisoners  even  were  sent 
back  to  Merseburg  and  to  prison,  who  had 
been  on  too  friendly  terms  with  the  senti- 
mental German  women. 


WORK  135 

The  medical  service  in  the  sheds  and  fac- 
tories where  there  are  sometimes  several 
hundreds  of  prisoners  at  work  is  also  very 
badly  managed.  Sometimes — and  this  is  the 
best  arrangement-r-they  are  attended  by  a  local 
civilian  doctor,  assisted  by  French  and  German 
orderlies.  There  are  even  some  works  where 
there  is  a  regular  ambulance,  but  in  most  cases 
there  is  no  provision  at  all.  Then  they  are 
examined  by  a  German  non-commissioned 
officer,  and  his  methods  can  be  imagined. 
Threats  of  punishment  and  even  physical 
violence,  according  to  an  old  soldier  acting 
as  a  doctor,  are  as  efficacious  as  rest  and 
medicine. 

There  are  also  reprisal  camps.  Life  in  these 
camps  must  be  awful.  I  give  a  few  lines  from 
a  letter  written  by  a  non-commissioned  officer 
employed  in  draining  a  marsh  : — 

"  We  are  still  here  in  the  reprisal  camps, 
and  are  not  by  any  means  comfortable  on  our 
straw  in  our  tents.  There  is  a  continual  cloud 
of  dust  both  inside  the  tent  and  out.  We  are  as 


136 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


black  as  sweeps  when  we  stop  work.  Our 
tent  lets  in  water.  We  have  more  opportunity 
here  for  writing  to  say  we  are  uncomfortable, 
and  for  giving  this  fact  as  wide  a  circulation 
as  possible."  These  prisoners,  and  these 
alone,  are  allowed  to  write  of 
their  sufferings — a  thoroughly 
Boche  touch  ! 

As  all  prisoners  in  Germany 
have  to  work,  the  luckiest  are 
the  men  employed  at  the 
camp.  There  is  a  consider- 
able number  of  employments 
open.  There  are  cooks,  who 
are  nearly  all  Frenchmen,  under 
a  German  head  cook,  and  they 
have  to  work  hard,  but  as  there  are  always 
bits  over  in  kitchens,  they  can  pick  up 
something  to  eat  without  robbing  their 
comrades.  There  are  also  tailors,  who  are 
allowed  a  stove  for  heating  their  irons,  and 
can  also  improve  their  food.  There  are  also 
attendants  at  the  baths  and  washhouses,  who 


WORK 


139 


can  get  boiling  water  when  they  like,  and  supply 
the  vendors  of  tea  and  cocoa.  There  are  men 
who  attend  to  the  gas  and  electric  light  and 
very  many  clerks.  Every  company  has  its 
French  quartermasters,  who  work  under  a 
German  Feldwebel,  and  prisoners 
are  employed  in  all  the  depart- 
ments of  the  commandant's 
office.  Naturally,  they  are  not 
put  in  positions  of  trust.  They 
sort  letters  which  are  to  be 
posted  or  distributed,  enter 
the  money  orders  that  are  sent, 
count  the  parcels  brought  from 
the  station  by  working  parties 
guarded  by  an  escort. 

For  those  who  can  speak  some  German 
prison  life  has  its  alleviations  :  they  have  a 
certain  position,  they  are  better  treated,  and 
have  something  to  think  about. 


THE   WATER   SUPPLY 


WHEN  we  hear  that  epidemics  of  typhus  and 
typhoid  broke  out  in  several  of  the  German 
prison  camps,  that  in  some  of  these  camps  six 
to  twelve  thousand  cases  occurred,  and  two  to 
three  thousand  deaths,  we  are  anxious  about 
the  water  supply,  and  wish  to  know  if  it  is 
good  in  quality  and  quantity. 

At  Merseburg,  where  there  were  no  epi- 
demics, the  water  supply  was  regular.  It  was 
perhaps  rather  long  before  it  was  in  working 
order,  but  I  must  say  it  was  very  well  managed 
before  I  left  the  camp.  Every  prisoner  could 
have  one  showerbath  a  week  ;  and  there  was  a 
regular  supply  of  hot  and  cold  water,  and  each 
company  had  its  day.  There  were  basins  and 


144  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

jugs  for  washing  in  the  morning,  besides  the 
taps  of  running  water  in  front  of  the  huts. 
Before  the  shower  baths  were  introduced  it 
was  difficult  to  wash  thoroughly,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  absurd  appearance  of  one 
prisoner,  who  made  superhuman  efforts  to 
have  a  bath  in  a  basin  much  too  small  for  him. 

In  some  camps  washing  is  arranged  for  by 
the  officials  ;  in  others  the  prisoner  must  do  his 
washing  as  best  he  can.  In  my  camp  we  had 
to  wash  our  clothes  at  the  tap  all  the  winter 
when  the  water  was  not  frozen,  or  in  a  basin 
when  there  was  one  to  spare  ;  but  at  last, 
towards  the  end  of  April,  the  washhouses  with 
hot  and  cold  water  were  ready.  This  was 
delightful.  There  was  even  a  disinfector  to 
wage  war  successfully  against  vermin. 

The  water,  of  which  there  is  a  plentiful 
supply,  is  good,  and  that  is  all  the  prisoner  gets, 
unless  he  prefers  to  buy  lemonade  and  caramel 
beer  at  the  canteen,  or  from  the  hawkers  who 
come  round  to  the  huts,  and  charge  a  little 
extra  for  their  trouble.  There  are  also  vendors 


THE   WATER  SUPPLY 


of  coffee  who  go  round  after  every  meal,  and 
vendors  of  tea  in  the  afternoon.  But  that  is 
all  the  prisoner  gets  to  drink,  and  he  often 
bitterly  regrets  his  sojourn  in  a  country 
famous  for  its  beer,  which  he  has  no  oppor- 
tunity of  tasting. 


/2D 


THE    DISINFECTOR 


NEWS 


it  2 


IT  is  quite  impossible  to  live  for  months  at 
a  time  without  news,  so  when  there  is  none  we 
invent  it,  or  rather  it  invents  itself,  Heaven 
only  knows  how.  Once  it  is  started,  the  rumour 
runs  its  course,  increasing  as  it  goes  to  truly 
amazing  dimensions.  Every  one  adds  some- 
thing to  it  and  knows  all  the  details  of  any 
event,  and  these  details  are  strangely  definite. 
So  in  November  we  heard  of  the  taking  of 
Metz  by  the  French;  a  German  officer  had 
admitted  it.  We  even  heard  that  our  officers 
had  given  a  banquet  the  night  of  their 
triumphant  entry.  Some  time  after  this  an 
old  sergeant-major  rushed  into  his  hut,  wild 
with  excitement,  shouting  :  "  Bravo  !  The  Allies 
are  bombarding  Aix-la-Chapelle."  He  believed, 


i5o  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

and  we  believed,  and  everybody  was  happy. 
English  soldiers  taken  prisoner  in  November 
told  a  story  of  having  seen  with  their  own  eyes 
a  body  of  cavalry  surround  the  Crown  Prince's 
motor  and  take  him  prisoner.  But  perhaps 
we  did  not  get  the  story  correctly.  As  to 
Lille,  it  was  taken  at  least  once  a  month. 
These  bits  of  news  were  always  good  news,  and 
even  when  they  seemed  d  priori  improbable  it 
was  always  pleasant  to  hear  them  passed  along. 
Besides  this  purely  imaginary  news,  we  had 
another  and  more  serious  source  of  informa- 
tion. Certain  German  papers  are  allowed  in 
camp,  and  every  day  an  interpreter  translates 
the  communiques  not  only  from  Berlin,  but  also 
those  from  Paris  and  Petrograd,  for  the  Boches 
also  publish  the  allied  communiques.  At  first 
sight  this  seems  an  excellent  plan,  but  it  is 
not  loyally  carried  out,  for  when  the  allied 
official  communiques  are  unfavourable  to 
them  the  Germans  gravely  state  that  "  the 
French  communique  is  so  full  of  gross  false- 
hoods that  it  is  impossible  to  publish  it." 


NEWS  151 

They  therefore  said  not  a  word  about  the  battle 
of  the  Marne,  and  prisoners  taken  in  August 
first  heard  the  good  news  from  men  taken  in 
October. 

The  Germans  thought  they  would  take 
advantage  of  this  wish  to  know,  this  thirst 
for  news.  They  started  three  papers  that  they 
distribute  among  the  prisoners  :  the  Bruxellois 
for  the  Belgians,  the  Journal  des  Ardennes  for 
the  French,  and  the  Continental  Times  for  the 
English  and  Russians.  They  are  three  gigantic 
monuments  of  Teutonic  duplicity.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  audacity  and  impudence  of 
the  lies  they  print.  Every  fact  is  disclosed  or 
shown  in  a  false  light ;  and  they  are  obviously 
intended  to  sow  doubt  and  suspicion  in  the 
minds  of  the  unhappy  exiles  by  all  foul, 
cunning  and  contemptible  methods.  Among 
their  weapons  are  bogus  "  open  letters  "  from 
French  prisoners,  addressed  to  France,  and 
doctored  extracts  from  French  newspapers. 
The  editors  of  these  extraordinary  papers  have 
no  scruples,  and  every  week  their  printed  sheets 


152  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

are  scattered  broadcast  over  Germany,  with 
the  sole  object  of  sowing  despair  and  distress. 

But  the  Germans  are  bound  to  see  the  failure 
of  their  efforts.  The  French  look  upon  these 
papers  as  the  comic  press,  and  the  English  are 
quite  unmoved.  The  Russians  might  perhaps 
be  deceived,  if  we  did  not  point  out  the  "  trail 
of  the  German  "  over  all  the  Russian  words 
and  phrases  they  have  put  together. 

Another  way  the  Boches  have  of  announcing 
bad  news  to  prisoners  is  even  worse.  The 
place  is  beflagged  at  every  German  success. 
There  are  tall  flagstaffs  at  the  entrance  of  the 
camp,  and  suddenly  we  see  the  German  colours 
hoisted  on  the  pole.  All  day  long  these 
pennons  flutter  in  the  wind,  and  the  guards 
sarcastically  point  them  out  to  the  prisoner, 
who  feels  the  iron  then  enter  into  his  soul. 

Luckily  for  us,  there  are  French  papers, 
which  are  always  being  smuggled  into  the 
camp  in  spite  of  all  the  German  precautions. 
They  are  read  devoutly,  the  sheets  are  passed 
from  hand  to  hand,  they  circulate  through  the 


NEWS  153 

camp,  and  every  one  tries  to  read  as  much  as 
possible  into  them.  Then  there  are  the  con- 
firmed optimists,  who  are  never  down-hearted, 
and  they  also  are  a  stimulant.  I  shall  always 
gratefully  remember  a  great  tall  fellow,  as  thin 


as  a  post,  with  his  beard  in  the  wind,  who  used 
to  find  his  way  into  every  corner  of  the  camp, 
in  spite  of  all  the  regulations,  and  who  went 
about  saying  :  "  Good  news  !  good  news  !  They 
say  themselves  in  their  own  papers  that  they 
are  absolutely  done  for."  Even  when  the  news 
was  not  so  good,  this  fellow  still  rushed  about 


154  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

from  hut  to  hut,  his  sanguine  faith  still  undis- 
turbed, and  shouting  his  "  good  news."  The 
heroes  of  the  battlefield  are  known  and  noted, 
but  exile  has  its  heroes  also,  who  will  never 
be  known. 


THE  THEATRE 


AN  illustrated  poster  affixed  to  a  hut 
announces  a  performance  and  gives  the  songs 
and  the  names  of  the  singers.  There  is  also 
to  be  a  play  with  costumes  and  scenery.  Shall 
we  look  in  ?  At  the  door  is  the  box-office, 
behind  a  table,  and  a  seat  costs  ten  pfennigs. 
When  I  produce  the  coins,  the  "  manager  " 
jumps  up  with  "  Oh,  not  journalists !  It 
would  be  the  first  time  you  paid  for  your 
ticket,"  and  takes  me  behind  the  scenes. 
The  contrivances  are  extremely  ingenious : 
the  stage  itself  is  made  of  tables  placed  side  by 
side,  the  wings  of  coverlets  hung  on  the  rafters, 
and  the  curtain,  which  is  run  on  a  cord,  is 
also  a  coverlet.  There  are  scenes  painted  on 
great  sheets  of  paper  joined,  and  my  guide  tells 


I58 


PRISONER  OF  WAR 


me  that  in  the  camp  they  came  from  the 
captain  was  very  interested  in  these  artistic 
efforts  and  encouraged  them.  Their  ambition 
was  to  play  Le  Bossu,  but  a  superior  Bossu  in 


verse.  The  scenery  was  painted  for  this  pro- 
duction, and  there  were  four  scenes  :  a  terrace 
and  gardens,  a  state  room  in  a  palace,  a  cottage 
interior,  and  riverside  scene  with  a  town  with 
its  churches  and  public  buildings,  showing  on 
the  opposite  bank.  He  also  showed  me 
baskets  full  of  costumes ;  and  an  actor  was 


THE  THEATRE 


painting  his  face  before  a  glass.  It  was  just 
like  .  .  . 

The  performance  is  just  beginning,  the  house 
is  crowded,  and  the  audience  on  their  benches 
are  impatient  to  see  the  curtain  drawn.    There 
is  a  notice  that  "  smoking  is 
prohibited,"  but  everybody  is 
smoking.      The    vendor    of 
lemonade    is    moving   up   and 
down,    calling  :    "  Iced  lemon- 
ade ! "     It   is    very    hot,   and 
many    honest     ruddy     faces 
streaming  with   sweat  will   be 
convulsed  with  laughter  when 
the  farce  begins.     Finally,  the 
stage  manager  comes  forward 
with  the  programme  in  his  hand  and  announces 

Monsieur  X in  Rebecca.     The  big  fellow 

who  comes  on  sings  the  song  cleverly  enough, 
every  one  laughs  and  encores  him,  and  he  sings 
another  song.  A  curly-headed  tenor  warbles 
a  ballad,  and  then  writhes  in  his  efforts  to  sing 
a  mountaineer's  song,  which  has  some  notes, 


160  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

la,  la,  *',  tou,  which  he  cannot  produce.     Singer 
follows  singer  in  rapid  succession,  and  then 

Monsieur    R ,  of    the    Concert  Mayol,  is 

announced.  He  is  got  up  as  a  civilian,  in  a 
coat  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole.  He 
gesticulates,  acts,  and 
flutters  about  just  like 
the  original.  His  songs 
are  truly  Parisian — tales 
about  errand-boys.  Next 
comes  an  imitator  of  Polin, 
lurching  about  the  stage, 
handkerchief  in  hand, 
and  then  "  our  friend 

B in    his    Montehus 

songs."  This  is  a  stumpy 
yellow-haired  lad,  with  a  rough,  harsh,  and 
ill-controlled  voice,  who  gives  us  some  Mon- 
tehus, and  then  informs  us  in  his  Menilmontant 
accent :  "  I  am  going  to  give  you  something 
of  my  own  on  the  Boches,  that  I  composed  in 
the  trenches  in  the  Argonne  ;  so,  if  you  see  any 
escargots  de  sable  looking  in,  let  me  know."  He 


THE  THEATRE 


161 


begins,  but  before  he  reaches  the  end  of  the 
first  verse,  those  by  the  window  look  round, 
and  an  immense  Boche  comes  silently  in. 
The  embarrassed  singer  stops,  and  the  audience 


shouts  :  "  Go  on,  go  on  ;  sing  something  else." 
He  pulls  himself  together,  and  sings  a  refrain  ; 
the  Boche  looks  on,  sniffs  the  air  to  see  if  we 
have  been  smoking,  and  goes  out. 

At  the  entfacte  we  leave  the  room  to  get  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.     At  the  door  the  office  gives 


162  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

us  passes,  and  the  vendor  of  lemonade  is  busy, 
as  are  the  vendors  of  cigars  and  cigarettes. 
The  audience  talk  in  little  groups,  or  else,  as 
it  is  Sunday,  look  on  at  the  male  and  female 
Boches  in  their  Sunday  best  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wire  fence.  The  second  part  of  the 
entertainment  is  a  comedy,  played  by  the 
authors.  In  this  the  costumes  and  scenery 
come  in,  and  the  laughter  is  loudest.  Some- 
times there  are  acrobats,  or  boxing  and  wrest- 
ling, or  a  musical  performance  by  an  impro- 
vised orchestra.  Every  camp  has  its  theatre. 
It  is  an  hour  spent  in  laughing  in  spite  of 
ourselves,  in  spite  of  all,  but  our  laughter  does 
not  ring  true,  and  leaves  behind  it  the  memory 
of  something  a  little  unworthy  and  a  little 
ugly. 


HOW    WE   GOT   BACK 


THE  medical  service  in  the  German  camps 
was  very  like  the  gun  of  the  famous 
Gervais  Alphonse  Daudet  speaks  of  :  this  gun 
was  always  being  loaded  and  never  went  off — 
"  toujou  lou  cargou,  part  jama'i." 

On  the  very  first  day  of  our  imprisonment 
the  Germans  told  us  we  were  only  there  for  a 
very  few  days  ;  then  the  monotonous  weeks 
and  months  went  by,  but  every  time  we  gave 
up  hope  and  had  resigned  ourselves  to  our 
fate,  something  happened  to  rouse  our  spirits  ; 
the  door  would  open  a  little  way  and  then  shut 
for  several  months. 

Some  of  the  medical  service  left  in  November, 


166  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

a  dozen  nursing  orderlies  chosen  by  lot  went 
from  my  camp,  and  the  others  were  to  follow, 
but  nothing  more  was  heard.  There  was  also 
a  rumour  that  the  old  men  and  children — we 
had  one  man  of  eighty-two — were  to  go.  The 
list  was  made  out  nearly  every  week  ;  it  was 
sent  to  Berlin  and  never  returned.  Then  it 
all  began  again.  Finally,  one  morning  (it  was 
a  Sunday)  German  non-commissioned  officers 
went  over  the  companies  with  a  list,  and 
marched  out  the  boys  and  old  men,  herded 
them  together,  searched  them  from  head  to 
foot,  and  then  off  they  went.  A  train  with 
steam  up  was  waiting  and  carried  them  off. 

Afterwards  a  party  of  wounded  went,  then 
a  second  and  a  third  ;  but  we  were  not  sure 
whether  they  left  for  France  or  for  another 
camp  ;  one  party  of  prisoners  left,  and  others 
were  sent  to  us,  but  the  medical  service  still 
remained.  The  winter  had  gone,  the  spring 
was  almost  over,  our  departure  had  faded  to  a 
distant  and  beautiful  dream,  when  suddenly,  on 
May  1 6th,  an  order  came.  Four  doctors  and  a 


HOW  WE  GOT  BACK  167 

dozen  orderlies  were  to  hold  themselves  in 
readiness  to  start  at  any  moment.  Lots  were 
drawn,  and  there  was  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth  at  the  result.  The  list  was  made  out,  and 
we  waited,  our  bags  and  valises  in  readiness, 
for  two  months.  The  general  a  week  later 


THE    FRENCH   MEDICAL   SERVICE'S    HUT. 

amused  himself  by  indicating  the  four  surgeon- 
majors  who  were  to  remain  behind  as  the  party 
that  was  leaving,  and  vice  versa;  and  no  one 
left.  Finally,  the  order  came  that  the  entire 
medical  staff  was  to  go  with  the  exception  of 
some  poor  wretches  who  remained.  It  was 
such  wonderful  news  that  we  could  not  believe 
it ;  we  thought  it  was  a  dream.  However, 
early  one  morning  we  got  up,  our  baggage  was 


168  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

searched,  we  were  taken  to  the  station  and 
packed  into  carriages,  and  the  journey  began. 
When  the  train  stopped,  we  went  on  to  the 
platform,  where  there  were  civilians,  women, 
and  children.  We  could  see  them  without  a 
wire  fence  between  us  ;  and  at  one  stopping 
place  there  was  grass — grass  and  wild  flowers, 
where  we  could  stretch  ourselves  at  full  length. 
The  landscape  became  wilder  and  more  rugged, 
with  sombre  rocks  and  slate-roofed  walls  and 
houses.  We  were  among  the  mountains  of 
Thuringia.  At  the  stations  there  were  crowds 
of  children,  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  and 
girls  and  boys  shook  their  fists  at  us  ;  but  little 
we  cared.  We  passed  by  Bamberg,  with 
its  cupolaed  churches  set  on  the  hills,  Furth, 
and  Nuremberg,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  its 
picturesque  buildings.  The  hours  went  by 
in  the  darkness,  and  we  were  too  uncomfortable 
to  sleep,  but  we  were  too  happy  to  mind.  In 
the  morning  there  was  the  cathedral  of  Ulm, 
with  its  spire  pointing  upwards  to  the  clear 
sky,  surrounded  by  little  old  Gothic  houses 


HOW  WE  GOT  BACK  169 

that  jostle  round  it  down  to  the  waters  of  the 
Danube.  The  cathedral  with  its  surrounding 
houses  looked  like  a  hen  and  chickens.  Then 
we  saw  Lake  Constance,  and  came  nearer  the 
frontier.  The  guard  in  our  carriage  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  wished  to  show  there  were  some 
decent  people  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Boches. 
As  we  ran  into  the  station  he  said  good-bye 
very  kindly,  with  good  wishes  to  us  and  our 
friends  at  home,  and  then  hurried  to  join  his 
fellow-soldiers,  who  were  marching  off  the 
platform  with  their  heavy  German  tread.  It 
was  good  to  see  them  go,  and  we  felt  less  of 
prisoners.  At  Constance  we  felt  we  were 
really  at  the  frontier,  but  they  had  not  finished 
with  us  yet.  We  spent  two  days  in  a  German 
barrack.  In  the  parade  ground  we  could  see 
the  new  recruits  in  training  and  being  initiated 
into  the  mystery  of  the  goose-step.  We  could 
feel  we  were  being  looked  after  ;  after  every 
meal  the  canteen-keeper  brought  us  beer,  and 
the  day  we  left  an  old  captain  went  into  each 
room  and  asked  :  "  Have  you  any  complaint  to 


170  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

make  of  your  treatment  these  last  two  days  ?  " 
These  last  two  days  !  That  is  thoroughly 
characteristic  of  the  Boche's  mentality. 

We  were  searched  again  at  the  station,  and 
then  our  guards  with  the  pointed  helmets 
left  us,  and  a  Swiss  officer  went  through  the 
carriages,  saying  in  French :  "  Please  sit 
down,  gentlemen,  for  the  inspection."  He 
called  us  gentlemen  !  The  train  moved  off,  and 
no  sooner  were  we  out  of  the  town  than  we  all 
rushed  to  the  window.  People  were  standing 
by  the  line,  shouting  "  Vive  la  France  /"  and 
waving  tricolour  flags,  while  we  in  turn  waved 
our  ktpis  and  handkerchiefs  and  sang  the 
Marseillaise.  We  were  free,  and  in  Switzer- 
land. There  were  not  many  dry-eyed  amongst 
us.  Then  more  tricolour  flags,  more  shouts 
and  cheering.  The  Swiss  soldier  in  our  carriage 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  French,  and  it  was 
in  German  that  he  told  us  he  wanted  to  give 
us  a  present,  and  out  of  his  cape  came  a  paper 
bag  full  of  new  white  rolls — the  first  white 
bread  we  had  touched  for  nine  months. 


HOW  WE  GOT  BACK  171 

We  were  greeted  with  the  same  enthusiasm 
all  through  the  night.  A  banquet  was  pre- 
pared for  us  at  Zurich ;  and  at  Lausanne, 
Fribourg,  Geneva,  and  everywhere,  in  spite  of 
the  early  hour,  there  were  people  waiting  to 
shake  hands  and  give  us  presents  of  flowers, 
chocolates,  cigars  ;  and  notes  were  thrown  into 
the  carriage.  It  was  daylight  when  we  entered 
France,  our  fair  France.  An  old  white-haired 
Territorial  presented  arms,  and  on  the  station 
platform  a  trumpeter  played  Aux  Champs.  A 
company  turned  out  in  our  honour,  and  a 
general  received  us.  It  was  a  great  day  for 
us.  There  were  our  new  soldiers  in  the  new 
sky-blue  uniform  we  had  never  seen  before, 
the  music  of  the  bugles  and  drums,  and  a 
wild  and  tremulous  emotion  made  us  shout  and 
rush  about  like  madmen.  We  fingered  their 
coats  and  knapsacks  and  rifles  and  embraced 
one  another.  Tables  were  laid  for  us,  and 
champagne  corks  popped ;  and  so  we  got  to 
Lyons. 

We  were  asked  not  to  express  our  joy  too 


172  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

loudly,  and  to  moderate  our  transports,  so  the 
train  ran  into  the  great  station  amid  a  silence 
more  moving  than  any  songs.  Bugle  calls 
rent  the  air ;  and  when  we  stepped  on  to  the 
platform  beside  the  new  classes,  who  looked 
so  young,  alert  and  slim  in  their  new  uniforms, 
we  with  our  old  coats,  our  red  trousers,  the 
Hussars'  blue  pelisses,  the  flat  caps  of  the  Alpine 
troops,  all  dirty  and  torn  and  ragged,  felt  like 
soldiers  of  an  earlier  age,  returning  from  some 
ancient  campaign.  We  were  escorted  by 
cuirassiers,  the  trumpets  blared,  and  we  were 
happy,  unimaginably  happy  and  content.  A 
whole  horizon  of  happiness  stretched  before 
us ;  we  were  on  the  way  to  our  homes,  our 
relations  and  friends ;  we  were  no  longer 
prisoners,  but  soldiers  once  again. 


BRADBURY,   AGKRW,    &   CO.    LD.,   PKINTKRS,   LONDON   AND  TONBRIDGK. 


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